Home Again
by Qweb
Summary: Scott Lancer gets word that his grandfather is dying in Boston, so he has to go home again. Johnny accompanies him, but the brothers don't know they're walking into a plot that will leave one near death and the other accused of attempted murder.  Last chapter posted.
1. On the Range

_Author's Note: This is a story written nearly 20 years ago. I used a program to translate it from an old file. It needed a lot of work to clean it up, so if you find a duplicated sentence or paragraph, that's the reason. Poohbear-29, this is for you._

**Home Again**

_**A Western Mystery based on the TV series "Lancer"**_

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1: On the Range<strong>

_**Lancer Ranch, San Joaquin Valley, California, April 1871**_

Johnny Lancer ducked his head under the flow from the pump, reveling in the feel of the cold water washing away hours of grime and sweat. Eyes closed with the pleasure of it, he threw his head back and shook the water from his black hair like a shaggy dog. The liquid ran down his neck to soak the back of his soon-to-be-changed shirt.

But as the water cleared from his ears, he heard the frantic pounding of hoof beats.

Johnny snapped out of his reverie. His right hand dived instinctively to the holster tied snugly against his thigh. His left hand brought up a corner of the towel that hung over his shoulder.

He wiped the moisture from his eyes, then relaxed when he got a clear view of the breakneck rider.

Son of the telegraph operator in Spanish Wells, Adam Jeffers was often sent out to deliver those messages that his father judged too important to wait until someone happened to be heading in the right direction. Young Adam took his duties seriously, battling floods and blizzards, Indians and outlaws, and all other sorts of imaginary hazards to bring news to the outlying ranches.

As his pinto pony pounded toward the "safety" of the Lancer gate, Adam bent low over the animal's neck. He half-turned to fire his finger at his pursuers with what was undoubtedly uncanny accuracy, Johnny recognized.

Roaring through the gate, Adam pulled his pony to a dramatic, sliding halt. The spirited pinto tossed its head and danced, ready to run the imaginary race all over again.

"Better watch yourself, Adam. Looked like they almost got you that time," Johnny commented as he approached the messenger.

The tow-headed youngster grinned. Some adults berated him for his wild riding, but Johnny was making up for a stunted childhood by refusing to grow up entirely. He treated children's fantasies with the same respect as adult dreams, and was always willing to join in the exploitation of either.

"Hi, Johnny," Adam said, sliding off the pinto. "I've got a telegram for Scott. Is he around? Pa said it was important. Came all the way from Boston!"

Adam, who had never been farther east than Green River, was awed at the thought.

Johnny was intrigued. Since his brother had spent most of his life in Boston, it wasn't surprising for him to get a letter from there — but a telegram?

"Scott's in the barn with Murdoch, bedding down a sick calf. I'll see he gets it," the younger Lancer said, holding out his hand.

The boy pulled back the telegram protectively.

"No, sir! I'm bound to deliver this to Mr. Scott Lancer personally!"

"How come? You think I'm gonna steal it from my own brother?" Johnny asked in surprise.

"'Course not," the boy said scornfully. "But I intend to hand this to Scott with my own hands."

Adam spoke seriously, but Johnny thought he detected a twinkle in the boy's eye. Suspicious, feeling he was being set up for a fall, Johnny asked why.

"Because Scott tips better'n you," Adam replied, laughing.

"Why you little sidewinder," Johnny snarled in mock menace. "Nobody makes fun of Johnny Madrid and lives to tell about it."

Johnny began to stalk the youngster, uttering imaginative threats. Laughing aloud, Adam dodged and danced to stay out of Johnny's clutches.

"Help, oh, help!" the boy cried in mocking terror. "The big bad gunfighter is going to get me!"

The ruckus drew spectators from the ranch house.

"What in tarnation is going on out here?" a loud voice complained. "Can't a body get ready for supper without being pestered by a pack of loco coyotes?"

The square-cut beard on Jelly Hoskins' jutting beard quivered indignantly, enhancing his resemblance to a billy goat. The slender girl at his side wiped her hands on her apron and added her playful protests to Jelly's.

"What are you two up to?" Teresa asked.

"I'm going to teach this half-pint skunk a lesson in manners," Johnny declared without taking his eyes from his slippery prey. "He implied I'm not fit to be trusted with a telegram for Scott."

"That only proves the boy is a good judge of character, brother," said a new voice from the direction of the barn.

Johnny looked up. In his moment of inattention, Adam dodged around him and headed toward the younger of the two grinning men who approached the porch.

The older man was bigger than either of his sons, tall and broad-shouldered. His craggy, rough-hewn face was the kind that weathers rather than wrinkles with age. Murdoch Lancer moved with a youthful stride. Only his white hair and a hint of excess flesh around his waist told the true number of his years.

The fair-haired young man beside him was nearly a match for his father in height, but not in breadth. He was as slender as a willow, with all that tree's grace of movement and elastic strength. Scott inherited his fine features and his build from his Boston-bred mother, but the square cut of his jaw and the calm strength in his gray eyes was pure Lancer.

Johnny straightened up as Adam flashed past.

Johnny was the odd Lancer out. His oval face and nearly black hair were the legacies of his Mexican mother, but his fair skin and ice blue eyes told the tale of his half-blood. A head shorter than his father and brother, his modest stature came in part from a poorly nourished childhood. But size is no measure of deadliness. Ask any rattlesnake.

Laughing at the boy's quickness, Johnny looked far from dangerous at that moment.

The young messenger halted in front of Scott and drew himself up in a sharp military salute.

"Sir! I have an important message for you!" he said briskly, reverting to his earlier game. "Despite enemy spies, road agents …" He threw a scornful glance at Johnny, "… and all manner of bandits, I am delivering this message directly to your hand, sir!"

Scott returned the salute crisply, old habit bringing his heels together and cocking the arm at just the right angle.

"You've done well, Mr. Jeffers," he said gravely. "I commend your dedication and devotion to duty. I would like to present you with the Medal of Honor with four oak leaf clusters, but unfortunately the quartermaster gave away the last one yesterday. I hope you will accept this small token of my appreciation."

Scott pressed a coin into the boy's hand, took the telegram, then saluted again. The boy mimicked the gesture.

"Thank you, sir," Adam said smartly, as Scott moved toward the porch. Then the boy looked at what he held and the game deserted him. "Gosh, Scott!"

The fair-haired Lancer just smiled and opened his telegram.

Johnny peeked over Adam's shoulder and saw the two bits the boy held — a quarter of a man's daily wage. The younger Lancer raised his eyebrows.

"You're right," he said softly. "He does tip better'n me."

"Scott!"

The concern in Teresa's voice brought Johnny around quick as a cat.

Scott's face had turned as pale as his hair. He groped behind him, found the porch bench and sat down heavily without taking his eyes from the telegram.

With a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, Adam realized he'd brought bad news.

Johnny hunkered on the porch at Scott's feet, trying to see up into his brother's face. Teresa moved to Scott's side and laid a light hand on his shoulder.

"Scott?" she said softly.

It was another long moment before Scott spoke in a husky voice.

"It's from my cousin Caroline in Boston. She says my grandfather has been taken seriously ill. His heart. The doctor doesn't …" Scott swallowed. " … doesn't expect him to recover."

His friends and family were silent. Scott stared at the paper for a long time, then he looked up to meet his father's worried eyes.

"I have to go home," Scott said. "I have to go back to Boston."

Murdoch's concerned expression didn't change, but Jelly's sharp eyes spotted the sudden spasm that clenched the man's fist. His voice, however, was matter of fact when he answered Scott's plea.

"Of course you do. Adam …" The boy started as being called back into the conversation. "… when's the next train east."

Such information was a telegrapher's stock in trade. Adam and his father both had the local time tables memorized.

"Not 'til tomorrow — four o'clock in the afternoon from Cross Creek," the boy recited after a moment's thought. "You're lucky. It's the Hotel Express, top of the line, direct from Sacramento with Pullman cars and …" His voice took on a note of awe. "… a real restaurant car."

Scott was too preoccupied and too widely traveled to be impressed with the West's latest luxury.

"Then I'll leave in the morning," he decided. He looked a question at Murdoch who nodded agreement.

Scott excused himself and went slowly to his room. None of his family took his eyes off Scott until he vanished into the house. Even then, it was another moment before the silent, motionless spell was broken.

Adam shuffled his feet, cleared his throat and said, "Well, I guess I'd better be getting home."

The others stirred, remembering their manners.

"Won't you stay for supper?" Teresa asked.

"I'd best not, Miss Teresa. Ma'll be expecting me," the boy said as he swung into the saddle. He started to ride out, then hesitated. "I'm really sorry, Mr. Lancer," he burst out. "Pa didn't tell me the telegram was bad news or I wouldn't have been horsing around with it,"

Murdoch was drawn out of his preoccupation with Scott. He patted the boy's knee kindly. "Of course. We knew that, Adam. Don't give it another thought. You didn't do anything wrong," he said gently, but somewhat absently. His eyes returning to the door where his elder son vanished.

Adam thought he ought to say something else, but he didn't know what. He turned his horse and rode away at a subdued canter, out of deference to the sad occasion.

Murdoch watched the boy for a moment, then went into the house followed by Jelly. Teresa picked up her bucket and went to draw water from the pump, her original reason for coming out of the house.

Johnny remained squatting by the porch steps. He turned a small stone over and over in the dust, concentrating on that small task as if it had earth-shaking importance. Finally he stood up, bringing the stone with him. His eyes on the far horizon, he tossed the stone from hand to hand and spoke to his father's ward.

"Teresa, do you think I'm a bad person?"

Teresa O'Brien gave a small laugh. "Well, the church doesn't collapse when you walk inside."

"No, I'm serious," Johnny said. ""Do you think my past has made me … hard?"

Teresa could tell Johnny was serious because he wouldn't meet her eyes. She sat on the edge of the water trough and thought carefully about her answer.

There had been a time when she would have called Johnny Lancer, then Johnny Madrid, a bad person. She hadn't much cared for Johnny or Scott when they'd first met.

Teresa was fiercely loyal to Murdoch Lancer. She had grown up on Lancer and Murdoch had virtually adopted her after her father, his Segundo and best friend, was killed in an ambush.

The slow-healing wound he'd received in the same ambush and the sudden death of most of his allies had left the aging rancher unable to cope with raiders trying to grab his land. So he put his pride aside — perhaps remembering that pride was the fatal sin in those Greek classics he loved to read — and he sent for the sons he'd never known.

Teresa knew Murdoch had swallowed his pride to ask for help. At first she hadn't thought they were worth it — one stuck up, Boston dandy and one surly, half-breed gunfighter. She was angered by their hostility toward Murdoch. But she'd soon learned Scott's reserve and Johnny's bitterness were just the shells they'd built during their fatherless childhoods. Once those shells were cracked, Teresa found her loyalties divided as surely as the Lancer Ranch had been — into three equal parts.

"Do you have to think about it so long?" Johnny asked plaintively, breaking the flow of her memories.

Teresa smiled fondly at the ex-gunfighter. "You know I don't think you're a bad person, Johnny. Why would you even think such a thing?"

Johnny fidgeted restlessly and replied, "When Scott said his grandfather might be dying, my first thought was, 'good riddance'."

"Johnny!"

"He gave her a sorry-looking smile of apology.

"I knew you'd think that was bad. I guess I think it's pretty bad myself. But after what he's done, I just can't feel sorry that he'll be out of our hair forever."

"Don't you let Scott hear you say that," Teresa warned.

"I wouldn't do that," Johnny protested. "I know Scott loves that old buzzard, though I'm blamed if I know why. Maybe old Harlan did raise Scott, but he almost got him killed that time he came out here. He tried to blackmail Scott into going back to Boston, making him think he could send Murdoch up on a murder charge. Then his accomplices turn around try to hold Harlan up, shooting Scott in the process. And that doesn't even count what happened 25 years ago, stealing Scott when he was a baby and using his money and his fancy Eastern lawyers to keep Murdoch from getting him back!"

Exasperated, Teresa said, "I know all that, Johnny Lancer! But that's all in the past. I don't like what he did either, but it isn't our place to sit in judgment on him. Everything Harlan Garrett did, he did to Murdoch or Scott. He never did anything to me or you. If they can forgive him, why can't you?"

"Maybe that's why, Teresa. Maybe that's why."

Johnny sat on the opposite corner of the watering trough. He gazed at the setting sun while Teresa watched him, troubled by his bitterness. Then a thought caused the corner of her mouth to quirk up.

"'Judge not lest ye be judged,' Johnny Madrid," she said lightly, so that what could have been a reprimand was more of a joke.

Johnny snorted. He weighed the stone in his hand, then gave it a hard look, before he finally turned to meet her smiling eyes.

"I guess I shouldn't be the one to cast the first stone, huh?"

"You've lived down your past, Johnny. Can't Harlan live down his?"

"Maybe."

He looked back at the sunset. She watched in silence as unhappy thoughts twisted his features again. She waited patiently, knowing Johnny hadn't gotten to the real point yet. Like a cat, Johnny had to walk clear around a problem before he'd tackle it. The silence went on so long Teresa started when Johnny jumped to his feet and threw away the stone violently.

"Damn it, Teresa. I don't trust that man!" he burst out. "What if this is another trick to get Scott to go back to Boston?"

"But he promised no more tricks."

"He's broken promises before."

Teresa shook her head.

"I don't think he would break this one, Johnny."

"But what if he did?"

"What if! OK, if you can't trust Harlan, then trust Scott," Teresa said. "If he goes to Boston and finds his grandfather isn't sick, then he'll be angry and he'll come home."

"Yeah, he'll be angry, and hurt again. And if Harlan is really dying, he'll still be hurt … and he'll be alone. I've been alone, Teresa. I was alone when my mother died. I was alone most of my life. No one should have to go through that alone."

"Then ask Murdoch if you can go with him. That's what you really want, isn't it?" Teresa said perceptively.

"I can't!" Johnny almost shouted. "It's calving time. Murdoch needs every hand he can get. And he's got those men coming from Sacramento to discuss water rights. I can't ask him to let me go, too. It wouldn't be fair."

Teresa had no answer for the family loyalties that tore Johnny in two frustrating directions. After searching futilely for some comforting words, she finally patted the dark-haired man on his shoulder and went inside to finish fixing a dinner she knew no one would want.

But before she went to the kitchen she told Murdoch about Johnny's fears. She had known Murdoch Lancer longer than both his sons combined. She trusted him to find the safest path out of the desert.

* * *

><p>Dinner was as dismal as Teresa expected. She and Jelly tried to include the others in the conversation, but the Lancers were preoccupied. Scott kept his eyes on his plate and toyed with his food. Johnny ate without tasting, worried eyes on his brother. Murdoch stared off into the distance without touching his food at all.<p>

Finally Jelly gave up and wolfed down his food, before asking to be excused.

"A fella can't hardly find his food for all the gloom in here," he commented tartly as he left.

He didn't go far. He lingered in the shadows of Murdoch's study until the others thanked Teresa politely and left the table.

Johnny trailed Scott to his room while Murdoch crossed the living room to the darkened corner that served as his study. The lamps still unlit, he sat behind the desk and rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"What's eatin' you, boss?" Jelly asked from the shadows, making Murdoch jump. The Lancer patriarch grimaced.

"What are you hiding there for?" he complained.

"I'm not hiding," Jelly lied with dignity. "I'm fetchin' wood for the fireplace. Now I answered your question. You gonna answer mine? You're not still frettin' about what Scott said, about 'goin' home' to Boston, are you? Why that was just a slip of the tongue."

It was plain from the expression on Murdoch's face that Jelly had read him correctly. Murdoch had thought Scott considered Lancer his home.

When Murdoch didn't reply, Jelly continued his rough comforting.

"Well, I reckon a body can consider two places home, don't you?" he huffed.

"Yes, you're right, Jelly, of course," Murdoch said a little impatiently. "That's not what's bothering me."

"Then what? From the way you're actin', you'd think it was your grandfather dyin', 'stead of a fella you've been feudin' with for near thirty years."

Murdoch could see he wasn't going to get any peace until he satisfied this hand who was virtually a member of the family.

"Jelly, what if Harlan is really sick. Who's going to take care of him?"

"Oh!" Jelly looked startled and sat down suddenly to ponder this unexpected notion.

"Well, I suppose he's got servants and such," he said uncertainly.

"Yes, but would that satisfy Scott?"

"No. No, that boy of yours has got a powerful sense of duty."

"That's what I'm afraid of. Scott is Harlan's heir, his only immediate relative. Johnny and I at least have each other, and you and Teresa; but Harlan doesn't have anyone but Scott. If Harlan's really sick, where would Scott's duty lie?"

Jelly looked sick himself. "Then you think he might stay in Boston?"

"It was duty that brought him out here in the first place. It might be duty that takes him away. And if it did, how could I object?" Murdoch asked.

Jelly didn't have an answer.

* * *

><p>"Scott?"<p>

The fair-haired Lancer blinked and turned from where he had been desultorily packing a small valise. Johnny leaned against the jamb of the open door. He smiled tentatively, fidgeting with a book he held.

"Uh, need any help?" he asked, indicating the valise on the bed.

Scott looked back at the bed as if he didn't know what Johnny was talking about. Then he ran his fingers through his hair and smiled at himself. When he shared that smile with Johnny, the dark-haired Lancer was glad to see a return to the present in his brother's eyes.

"No, there isn't much to pack," Scott said. "I can't carry much on horseback and I won't need much in Boston anyway."

"I suppose you've got a whole wardrobe of clothes in Boston, hmm?" Johnny said, flopping on Scott's bed.

"I don't suppose grandfather threw anything out, if that's what you mean," Scott said, sorting through clothes with more decision than he'd shown for hours.

"No, I don't suppose he did," Johnny agreed.

Scott held up a suit and studied it.

"I'm afraid most of these clothes would look …" He discarded a dozen adjectives before he chose "… out of place in Boston."

"I suppose," Johnny said. He lounged on the bed, comfortable as a cat, watching Scott pack. "You sure you've got everything you need? How about money?"

"Murdoch gave me a third of what was in the safe, and a little extra, or my mathematics are off."

Johnny shrugged away Murdoch's largess as being exactly what he would have expected.

"It's more than enough for the train ticket, and I shouldn't need much spending money in Boston." He grinned playfully. "Even if I have to stay for awhile, there shouldn't be much problem about money. I'll have free lodging at grandfather's house, and I could dine out for months by telling stories about cattle drives and outlaws …" He gave Johnny a quick, playful grin. "… and gunfighters I have known."

Johnny hid his grin with his hand.

"Maybe you could hire a hall," he suggested with light sarcasm. "Charge admission?"

"Maybe," Scott said.

While Scott rummaged for some things in a bureau drawer, Johnny lay back and stared at the ceiling.

"Scott, do you think you're going to have to be gone 'awhile'."

Scott leaned on the bureau for along time without answering. Finally he met his brother's questioning eyes in the mirror.

"I don't know, Johnny. It depends on how sick grandfather is," he said honestly.

He jammed the last items into the valise and strapped it up savagely; then he leaned on the bed, head hanging.

"He always said he was never sick a day in his life. I never knew he had a heart problem. But of course he wouldn't have told me."

"It might be something that developed as he got older, like Jelly's rheumatiz'," Johnny said judiciously.

Scott managed a faint smile in recognition of the family joke, but his attitude remained serious.

"I'm scared, Johnny," he said quietly. "If grandfather dies …"

Johnny sprang up, full of energy, and slapped Scott on the back.

"Shoot! Old Harlan isn't going to die. He's too tough. He raised you, didn't he? Put up with you for 24 years? If he can survive that, he can survive anything."

"Thanks a lot," Scott said sarcastically. But he was smiling again, faintly but definitely.

"It's getting late. I ought to let you get to bed," Johnny said.

He suddenly thrust at Scott the book he'd been fiddling with since he entered the room.

"Here, I took this off Murdoch's shelves. Something to keep you occupied on the long train ride."

Scott looked at the book — Homer's "Odyssey."

"Murdoch says it's about a fella coming home from a war, even though all kinds of troubles try to keep him from getting there."

Scott, whose years at Harvard included a complete course in the classics, nodded gravely. "I believe I've heard of it," he said.

"I thought …" Johnny let it trail off. He stood uncomfortably in the doorway, then blurted, "Just don't take twenty years to get back home, brother.

**To Be Continued**


	2. Homeward Bound

_Author's Note: Thanks for all the reviews. I hope you guys are in this for the long haul. There are about 70,000 words in this story. Don't worry, I'll break it up into manageable bites. I did a lot of research for this story (pre-Internet, in actual books!) about train travel and Boston and other things we'll get to later. The Pacific Hotel Express did exist. But any mistakes are my own. Call them poetic license._

**Chapter 2**

**Homeward Bound**

_**The Garrett Mansion, Boston**_

Justin Michaelson dragged himself up the stairs, returning clean towels to their proper cupboard.

The footsore footman thought wearily that it was a sad day when a man was reduced to doing maid's work. The irony of the thought was bitterly amusing. "A sad day" was an understatement.

It was small comfort that everyone was as tired as he was.

The Garrett family dinners were always wearing on the staff, for the visitors stayed overnight and breakfasted whenever they were ready the next morning. It was a lot of work getting the rooms made up and the dinner prepared, but at least the dinners were only held on special occasions, such as celebrating Mortimer and Evangeline Garretts' anniversary.

The party had gone off splendidly until the traditional nightcap, when Harlan, master of the house and patriarch of the Garrett tribe, clutched his heart, collapsed to the ground and was sick all over his precious Persian rug.

No one had gotten any sleep after that. The family sat up and worried, relieving their jitters by making hurried trips to the center of town to fetch the doctor, to wake the pharmacist and to send telegrams to absent relatives.

The servants fetched and carried for the family and the doctor until the crisis passed.

The sky was showing signs of dawn, but the Garretts were only now drifting to their separate rooms. In fact, Michaelson realized, everyone seemed to have disappeared, which was a relief.

The staff was just finishing cleaning up. Soon Michaelson would be able to disappear into bed, too. He was so tired he could hardly keep his eyes open, he thought as he set the towels on a table next to the cupboard.

Then a few whispered words opened his tired eyes wide.

"… and as soon as he's dead, we'll have everything," the whisper crooned from behind the East Room door.

"Make it soon," another voice replied, also in an unidentifiable whisper.

"As soon as I can," the first whisper promised.

Michaelson was stunned. His weary mind revolved what he'd heard and could only come up with one explanation. Someone in the house was trying to murder Mr. Garrett.

The footman took a shocked step backward, and the precariously balanced towels thumped to the wooden floor. The quiet sound seemed as loud as a train wreck in the silent hall.

With a panicky glance at the East Room, Michaelson fled around the corner. But he wasn't fast enough to avoid the sharp eye that peered through a crack in the door.

The eye narrowed. The crack shut firmly, decisively.

Michaelson's heart pounded. He was a timid soul and not overly bright, but he was unconditionally loyal to Harlan Garrett. He knew he had to tell someone about what he'd heard, but who?

He hadn't been able to identify the whispered words, not even to tell whether the whisperers were male or female. The conspirators could be anyone in the house — the family members, the staff, even the doctor! He couldn't trust anyone.

Then he brightened. There was someone he could trust, someone who couldn't be involved because he was 3,000 miles away.

Not knowing Scott Lancer had already been summoned, the footman sat down to compose a letter. It never occurred to him to send a telegram. Telegrams were for rich people.

In the early morning hours, he slipped out of the house in a downpour to mail the letter. He started home, satisfied he'd done his duty. The satisfaction didn't last long, for Michaelson was a born worrier. He was sure he'd done his best for the family, but perhaps it wasn't strictly a family matter, after all.

A well-trained and loyal servant, Michaelson considered it almost sacrilegious to talk about the Garrett family outside the house. But it gradually dawned on him that if someone was trying to kill Harlan Garrett, it was a matter for the constabulary.

He dithered outside the Garrett mansion for a long moment, then turned away. He decided to catch the streetcar into town and hand his burden of worry to the constables. He headed for the main street where heavy produce and grocery wagons were clattering over the cobblestones, as the city of Boston began to come to life.

His head was bent against the wind and rain. Concentrating on keeping his balance on the slick cobblestones, Michaelson didn't pay any attention to the footsteps approaching rapidly from behind him.

_**Lancer Ranch**_

It was still early morning when Scott kissed Teresa, shook Jelly's hand (to the old wrangler's embarrassment) and mounted his horse.

There were tears in Teresa's eyes when she handed him a box of food for the trip. Scott leaned down and lifted her chin.

"Why the tears, Teresa? I'd think you'd be happy. One less mouth to feed," he said with forced cheerfulness.

"Oh, Scott!" Teresa hugged him fiercely, nearly dragging him from his horse. He responded by pulling her off the ground so he could look in her eyes directly.

"Don't worry, little sister. I'll be back before you know it," he said.

He kissed her forehead and set her gently on her feet; then he extended his hand to his brother.

"Johnny."

Johnny took it in a long, warm grip.

"Vaya con Dios, brother," the younger Lancer said.

At last, Scott turned to his father.

"Murdoch?"

The Lancer patriarch stepped forward and enfolded his son's hand in a tight, two-handed grip. He had to swallow twice before he could speak.

"You tell Harlan I said there couldn't possibly be anything wrong with his heart, because everyone knows he hasn't got one," Murdoch said gruffly. "Then he'll have to get back on his feet so he can come out here to tell me what he thinks of me."

Scott smiled faintly. "I'll tell him sir," he promised.

Murdoch squeezed Scott's hand, released it reluctantly, and stepped away from the horse.

"Take care of yourself, son."

Scott sat up in the saddle to survey his family. There were so many things he would have liked to say, but none of them needed to be said, and there was a lump in his throat that prevented him from speaking anyway. With a last eloquent look, but no further words, he pulled his horse around and rode out.

Everyone watched in silence for a while, then turned to their chores; but Murdoch kept watching until Scott disappeared from sight.

He finally went inside lost in thought. He remembered his first meeting with Scott, so formal and aloof, and with Johnny, so wild and angry. It was hard to deal with the two of them, with their different points of view. And yet … Murdoch had often thought that his bargain — an equal partnership for their help on the ranch — would never have worked if his sons hadn't coincidentally arrived at the same time. There was so much emotional barbed wire separating Murdoch and his boys that he might never have broken through. But since neither had known of the other's existence, they had started from scratch. The respect they had developed for each other's differences had allowed them to accept Murdoch, too.

He had often thought that without both sons, he'd have had neither.

That thought crystallized the decision Murdoch had been putting off all night, maybe putting off too long, he discovered when he looked at the time. Scott had been gone for hours.

Murdoch strode into the kitchen shouting for Teresa and Jelly who came running. His terse instructions brought sparkle to their eyes for the first time that day. They leaped to do his bidding.

Murdoch took most of the remaining emergency fund out of his safe and decided he had everything he needed accept his second son, who naturally was nowhere to be found.

Murdoch bellowed through the house and the outbuildings and finally located Johnny cleaning the stables with savage intensity.

"Johnny! What are you doing there?" Murdoch shouted.

"Murdoch! What does it look like I'm doing?" Johnny replied in exasperation, wiping the sweat from his face.

"You can't catch a train smelling like a manure pile!" Murdoch said in good humor.

Johnny froze. "What'd you say?"

"You heard me. Get changed. You've got a train to catch."

"Murdoch, are you sure? What about the ranch?"

"I handled it before you were born. I can handle it now." He added more seriously. "I've never been more sure of anything, Johnny. I think Scott needs someone with him and I can't go, so you're elected. Now, jump!"

Johnny jumped.

In under thirty minutes he was bathed, changed and on his sturdy palomino. He made hasty farewells, but Murdoch's voice stopped him as he turned to go.

"Bring him back, Johnny."

Johnny flashed his father a smile. "Even if I have to drag him," he promised.

He kicked Barranca into a ground-eating gallop.

The palomino hit town at a dead run just as the eastbound passenger train blew the "all aboard" signal. With a fleeting memory of Adam's "heroic" ride Johnny yanked loose his saddlebags and dashed for the station as the whistle sounded to clear the tracks. Slowly, ponderously, the train began to move, puffing like an old man climbing a flight of stairs.

Saddlebags over his shoulder, one hand on his hat, Johnny vaulted the station gate. He tore through the departing crowd. Women yanked their children from his path. Men clutched at their sweethearts or their baggage.

On the track, the train was gathering speed, but Johnny was already running flat out. With a convulsive effort, he caught the rail at the end of the last passenger car. The conductor hauled him aboard.

Johnny bent over, clutching his knees, hauling in lungfuls of welcome air. Face still red from the effort, he straightened.

"Whew!" he told the conductor eloquently.

"I take it you didn't have time to purchase a ticket at the window, sir," the conductor said, successfully stifling a smile.

"No," Johnny agreed. "No, I didn't. I was running just a little late," he admitted, pulling a wad of bills from his pocket. "Can I buy one clear through to Boston?"

The conductor raised his eyebrows just a hair.

"Yes sir," he said politely. "You'll have to transfer trains a couple of times, but I can give you a ticket for the entire trip. First class?"

For the week-long, cross country journey, first class was the only remotely comfortable way to travel in 1872. But Johnny checked first to see what arrangements Scott had made.

"Yes, we have another gentleman aboard who is going to Boston. He's in the lounge at the moment, I believe."

"Then I'll have company, won't I," Johnny said blandly, as he shelled out the money for a first class ticket.

Scott was absently watching the scenery speed past the window when a shadow fell across him.

"Is this seat taken?" a familiar voice asked.

Without waiting for an answer, Johnny plunked himself down in the empty seat facing his brother. He slouched there, peering out from under his dusty hat, grinning infectiously. As usual, Scott couldn't help but catch the infection.

"What are you doing here?"

"Me? Oh, I'm just following orders, brother," Johnny replied vaguely, brushing off his hat and his jacket.

Scott knew only one person gave his brother orders.

"But why?" the elder brother asked.

"Well … maybe Murdoch thought you need some company, or maybe we thought you needed protection from the wiles of those wicked Yankee traders…" Johnny paused and grinned widely. "… Or maybe I just wanted to see Boston."

Scott shook his head in amusement.

"Don't you ever give a straight answer to a straight question?"

Johnny slid his hat over his eyes and propped his feet on the seat next to Scott.

"Maybe," he answered.

Scott snorted. "The old home town is never going to be the same."

_**Pacific Hotel Express, eastbound**_

Their good fortune at catching the Pacific Hotel Express allowed the Lancers to eat at their leisure, instead of grabbing a quick bite at the overcrowded whistle stops along the way, as passengers — first class included — had to do on most trains. And the food in the restaurant car was excellent. As good as some of the best hotels back East, according to Scott. Johnny didn't argue with his mouth full.

They spent their days in the lounge reading, talking or playing two-handed poker. Johnny found that Teresa packed a book of stories in his saddlebag. He determinedly plowed his way through the high-flown language of some of the authors. Occasionally he had to turn to his brother, who was immersed in The Odyssey, for help with an unfamiliar word or phrase that he couldn't puzzle out from the context. That Poe fellow was particularly aggravating since he kept throwing around French phrases. The punch line of one story was in French, which greatly annoyed the half-Mexican rancher.

Besides translating, Scott offered a few lessons in literary figures of speech. Johnny listened as intently as if his life depended on it. When he took on a chore, he didn't do it halfway. Scott kept the instruction simple, but the Harvard-educated Lancer didn't condescend to his unlettered brother. He'd been on the opposite side too often in lessons about cattle handling and western ways.

The Lancers kept to themselves in the first class compartment. Their fellow passengers were excursioners from Philadelphia on their way back home. They thought the West was pretty quaint and the brothers didn't care to be objects of their curiosity.

They did get into some lively conversations and one good poker game in the second-class compartment. But the acquaintances were short because most of the "real Westerners" were only traveling short distances between one small town and another along the Pacific route.

Johnny, who'd never traveled first class before, enjoyed the novelty of sleeping in a bed while continuing to travel at a faster clip than a horse could do. The Pullman berths were cramped and lacked privacy, but the two vaqueros had slept in much worse conditions on the trail. Despite the lurching and swaying train, Johnny slept soundly each night.

Scott didn't sleep so well, but it had nothing to do with the accommodations.

His brother's cheerful company kept the worries and fears at bay during the day, but they came back to haunt him each night. He tossed and turned for hours before falling asleep.

Johnny could see Scott was fretting, but couldn't think of anything to do but try to take Scott's mind off Harlan. The farther they traveled, the more tense and quiet Scott became.

Finally Johnny persuaded him to wire his cousin Caroline for news.

##

Johnny strolled on the station platform, stretching his legs while Scott stood in line to send the telegram. The station was only a whistle stop. The train wouldn't have paused at all if it hadn't been waved to a siding to let the westbound pass.

Johnny watched with interest as the station manager hauled out a heavy mailbag. He hung it up on a hook and swung the long arm out over the track as the ground began to rumble with the approach of the westbound. The younger Lancer stepped back to watch, and it was a trick worth watching.

The train roared through the station. Its whistle shrieked a warning and the wind of its passing sent dust swirling in a choking cloud. An iron hook projecting from the open door of the baggage car snatched the mailbag from its perch, which vibrated like a tuning fork. The mailbag disappeared into the baggage car as slick as a conjuror's trick.

Then the westbound train was gone, fading down the track like a memory, carrying Justin Michaelson's letter to Morro Coyo.

##

The eastbound train whistled for its straying passengers. Johnny swung aboard but paused on the platform waiting for Scott. The train was beginning to crawl forward when Scott dashed from the telegraph office. Johnny pulled him onto the car.

Scott paced in the parlor car more nervous than ever. He bounded off the train at each stop to check for an answer; but it was two hours and several stops before the reply came.

UNCLE HARLAN MUCH IMPROVED KNOWING YOURE COMING STOP JERRY AND I WILL MEET YOU AT THE STATION STOP LOVE CAROLINE STOP

Johnny thumped his brother on the back.

"Told you Harlan was too tough to die!" Johnny crowed.

Scott sat down and relaxed, really relaxed, for the first time since he'd received the original telegram. In fact, he relaxed so much he fell asleep.

Johnny grinned fondly, tucked the telegram into Scott's pocket and began another wrestling match with his book.

##

The next morning, a few miles outside of Boston, Johnny swung his stocking feet from the upper berth and nearly thunked his brother in the head. Scott, who was bending over his packing, ducked and caught Johnny by the toes.

"Watch what you're kicking," Scott warned and shoved upward on the soles of Johnny's feet.

The younger Lancer rocked backward, disappearing behind the berth curtains, then reappearing on the rebound. He deliberately brought his feet down to playfully graze both the sides of Scott's head. Scott tilted his head back to eye his brother with terrible sternness.

Johnny peered down with his most kittenish smile.

"That was fun. Do it again," he requested.

Quickly, Scott slapped Johnny's feet sideways, so his brother pivoted in the berth and tumbled face down into his pillows.

Scott stood up straight to watch Johnny flounder clear of the tangle of bedclothes and curtains. A feat that was made more difficult when the train began weaving through a series of curves.

Using his elbow to prop up his head, Johnny looked Scott straight in the eye.

"You know, at this rate I'm never gonna to get my boots on," he said.

Scott bowed deeply, gesturing that the corridor was all Johnny's. With a laugh, the dark-haired Lancer bounced into the aisle and reached into the upper berth to retrieve his boots.

He tried to balance on one foot to pull on his boot, but a lurch of the train toppled him into the lower berth. He sat up and gave Scott a comical look.

It made Scott laugh, which gladdened Johnny's heart.

"I don't think you can break those broncs, boy," Scott drawled. "Mebbe ya oughta plug 'em 'n put 'em outta their miz'ry."

Johnny smiled in appreciation of the creditable imitation of one of the Lancer hands.

"I'll tell you, son. The pair of boots ain't been born that I can't break," Johnny vowed from his seat in the lower berth.

With a grand flourish, Johnny drew on one boot and then … the other!

He looked triumphantly at Scott, who applauded. Johnny held out his hand.

"You know what Murdoch says, brother. When you take a fall …"

"… You've got to get right back up and try again," Scott finished as he hauled Johnny to his feet.

The conductor interrupted their horseplay.

"Excuse me, sirs. The engineer just got word that there's been an accident on another line up ahead, so we won't be sidetracked in Albany after all."

"Then we'll be in Boston ahead of schedule?" Scott asked.

"Yes sir. Nearly two hours," the conductor said, as he passed by to spread the news.

"Looks like we'll have to wait awhile before your cousin comes to fetch us," Johnny commented, as he reached for his gun belt.

"I suppose we can find some way to keep ourselves amused," Scott returned. "You won't need that, you know," he said gently, nodding at the gun.

Johnny looked as startled as if Scott had said he didn't need his pants. A professional gunfighter from age 15, he had been carrying guns every day since he was 12. Out West, a man even wore a gun to church, though it hung on a peg in the cloakroom during the service. His gun was a part of him.

Scott waited patiently, understanding Johnny's hesitation.

"Boston's a law abiding town, Johnny. You won't need them. They'll only lead to trouble. Constables usually meet the eastbound trains to remind westerners that Boston is a civilized city. You don't want to get thrown in jail first thing, do you?"

Johnny saw his brother was dressed in his best suit, with no gun belt. Scott's guns were visible in the open valise.

Tense as a nervous cat, Johnny fingered the well-worn pearl handles of his Colt revolver.

"You're asking a lot, Scott."

"Not a lot," Scott replied, holding out the open valise in invitation. "I'm just asking you to trust me."

There was only one reply Johnny could make to that request. He dropped the gun belt inside and watched Scott strap it up.

"It's your range, brother. I'll ride by your rules. But I have to tell you, I feel half naked. Come on, let's go raid that restaurant car one last time. I'm starved," he said, clapping his arm around Scott's shoulders.


	3. A Man's Home

**Chapter 3**

**A Man's Home …**

_**Railroad Station, Boston, Massachusetts**_

"You stay put. I'll take a look around and see if Caroline and Jerry are here. Don't go away," Scott said.

He left his brother holding the valise and saddlebags, still gawking at the enormous train station.

"Hey, Scott, wait!" Johnny protested in sudden panic, but he'd already lost sight of his brother in the stampede of humanity.

He was used to the plains of the California-Mexico border and the broad flatlands of the San Joaquin Valley. He'd never seen so many people in one place at one time — not in San Francisco, not in any of the towns he'd passed through en route to Boston.

The train had reached the biggest of those cities, Chicago, in the middle of the night; and Johnny had not had any time to look around. He would later regret missing his chance to see the city before it was devastated by the great fire. At the moment, he was too nervous to remember where Chicago was.

With two trains arriving and one departing, the crowded Boston railroad station reminded Johnny of a corral crammed with a milling herd of horses. He backed against a pillar to avoid being trampled and waited nervously for Scott.

The youngest Lancer was aware his western garb was drawing stares from the passersby. He tried to ignore the attention, but one man wearing a three-piece, pinstripe suit and a dark derby hat approached. The stranger touched his hat politely.

"Excuse me, friend. I see you just came in on the train. Mind if I ask where you come from?" he said.

Johnny raised his eyebrows.

"Mind if I ask who's asking?" he replied, though truthfully, he didn't mind the distraction at all.

By way of answer, the stranger opened his coat and showed the badge pinned to his vest.

"Boston Constabulary," he said sternly. "You look like a man who knows how to handle a gun, and we have laws about that sort of thing here. Now you can answer a few questions now, or you can come along to the station and do it. Which will it be?"

"I'm not looking for any trouble, constable," Johnny said peaceably. "You can see I'm not wearing a gun."

"True, but you might have anything in that bag there," the constable said, reasonably. "And if you don't mind my saying so, you have the look of a man who's more than a little familiar with guns."

The callouses on Johnny's thumb and trigger finger, and the crease in his right pants leg where a holster was habitually tied down, were certain signs of trouble to the constable's eye. He was ready for almost any reaction, from protests of innocence to violent action; but he wasn't prepared for Johnny's sudden, engaging grin.

Johnny always appreciated professionalism. He could see all the good lawmen weren't located west of the Mississippi. This constable had to be good to single Johnny out of the milling crowd, to recognize the wolf-cautious watchfulness that was the hallmark of Johnny Madrid, gunfighter.

Johnny Lancer, rancher, was glad his brother had persuaded him to not wear his gun. He'd have hated to get into a ruckus with the constable.

When Johnny didn't answer, the constable pressed.

"You in town on business or pleasure?"

"Just visitin', constable. Just visitin'."

Johnny might have enjoyed himself if he hadn't felt out of his element in the cavernous Boston train station.

"Where are you going to be staying?" the constable asked.

Johnny was tempted to throw out the name of the prestigious Garrett family, just to see the man's response. But he was afraid the response would be to lock him up.

The younger Lancer was saved by the interruption of a familiar voice.

"Sergeant Wesley! Atten-shun!" the voice bawled as if on a parade ground. "Haven't you got anything better to do, mister, than harass innocent travelers?"

The constable spun around so fast that Scott had to grab his shoulders to keep him from falling over.

"Scott Lancer! By all that's holy!"

Wesley engulfed Scott in a bear hug that lifted the slender young man clear off his feet. Johnny leaned against his pillar and enjoyed the spectacle.

"Ah, Wes, it's good to see you again," Scott said, thumping his old friend on the back. "You said you sometimes had this detail, but I didn't really expect to run into you so soon."

"Scott! I can't believe it! It seems like ages since you went West. Listen, I heard about your grandfather. Is that why you're here?"

Worry shadowed Scott's face as he answered in the affirmative. Wesley hurried to erase it.

"But I heard he's doing much better. Bet he heard you were coming home and it perked him right up," he said playfully, punching Scott's chest.

Scott smiled at the sally, but the exuberant mood was broken. Seeing that, Johnny coughed loudly to remind everyone of his presence.

Scott put one arm around the shoulders of the burly constable.

"Johnny, this is Sgt. Jeremiah Wesley — don't ever call him Jeremiah — of the Boston Constabulary. He was my sergeant during the war and he helped keep a green lieutenant alive while he learned the ways of war. Wes, this is my brother, Johnny. He's been keeping a greenhorn Easterner alive long enough to learn the ways of the West."

The two men shook hands. Their eyes acknowledged the bond Scott had suggested.

"I'm pleased to meet you, constable," Johnny said with teasing politeness.

"Better make it 'Wes'," the constable said, somewhat absently. He appraised Johnny in the light of the letters Scott had written, a little surprised that this dark-haired, under-sized man with the charming smile was the big, bad gunfighter, Johnny Madrid. And yet there was something about Johnny that had set off the constable's internal trouble alarm. Scott hadn't been exaggerating, Wes realized.

Scott broke into the constable's reverie before Johnny could become nervous, or amused.

"My cousins are supposed to pick us up, but they aren't here yet, Wes. Do you have time for a beer, or are you on duty?"

"Well, the next train I'm supposed to meet isn't due for several hours, and t looks like I already checked out the only dangerous character on this one …"

Johnny laughed.

"… So I guess I can spare a few minutes to have a drink with an old friend," Wes finished.

"So you're Scott's brother," he said speculatively, as they walked toward the station's restaurant-saloon. "Guess I wasn't wrong when I said you were familiar with guns."

He sounded like a constable.

"Most people are where I come from," Johnny said, shrugging.

"That's all in Johnny's past, Wes," Scott said firmly. "He was a pretty wild colt, but Murdoch and I have got him gentled down now. Why he'll even lead, if you tug on the halter real easy. We haven't quite got him saddle broke, though."

He slapped his brother's shoulder. Johnny put on a mock serious expression.

"What do you call that — what you just said? That wasn't one of those smiley things, right?" Johnny asked Scott.

"No, you're right. It wasn't a simile," Scott said gravely, referring to their discussion on the train.

"'Cause a simile …" Johnny concentrated on getting the pronunciation right, "… That's where you use 'like' or 'as'."

"Right," Scott agreed. "But if you just talk about a person as if he was a fox or a wild horse, then that's called a metaphor."

Johnny was concentrating.

"So if I say 'Wes is eying me like a hound dog eyes a puma,' then that's a simile. But if I say 'Wes is sniffing suspiciously at my back-trail,' then that's a metaphor."

"Correct," Scott said, maintaining, with effort, a scholarly deadpan.

"All right, you two, I surrender," Wes said, laying Constable Wesley firmly aside, for the moment. "I know. You're both as innocent as babes in the woods."

"Simile!" crowed Scott and Johnny together.

##

In a corner of the crowded station saloon, the three men relaxed over cold beers.

When Johnny innocently asked how Scott and Wesley met, he set off a spate of war stories and "do you remembers." The two former soldiers left their beers practically untouched. Johnny just sat back, sipping his beer, learning more about the brother he'd only known for three years.

But Scott wouldn't allow his brother to be excluded from the conversation. Soon the two Yankees had Johnny comparing notes about the tactics he'd used when fighting with Juarez against the French.

Finally Wes protested he was only hearing stories he already knew the ends of; so the boys obliged with a few "war" stories from the West.

"Tell me about Lancer," Wes said.

The brothers both started to say something, then stopped simultaneously to let the other speak. They laughed, embarrassed.

"Come on, speak up," Wes prodded.

"Go ahead, Scott. You're the sweet talker," said Johnny, whose education had been sporadic at best.

"Wes, Lancer is …" Scott paused, seeking inspiration in his beer, then continued softly. "Lancer is big, Wes. Bigger than the whole of Boston. You can sit on South Mesa, and everywhere you look, everything you see, is Lancer. But it's more than land and horses and cattle. It's a dream. Our father's dream. He built it with his head and his hands and his heart — and now he's sharing it with us. It's …" He shook his head as words failed and looked to his brother for help.

"It's home," Johnny said with simple eloquence.

His chin resting on hands folded atop the table, Johnny spoke as if to himself.

"It's the only home I've ever known. Lancer means always having someone to back my play, even when, especially when, I get in over my head. Lancer means never being alone again."

Johnny looked suddenly embarrassed. He drained his glass to hide it, but when he put it down he found himself looking straight into his brother's eyes. Scott's clear gray eyes were full of understanding. Why Johnny had accompanied Scott was no longer a mystery.

Wes studiously looked elsewhere. Scott's eyes spoke more volubly than any of the reminiscences. They tore at battle-scarred wall that gunfighter Johnny Madrid had built around his feelings. Johnny had to look away, because it hurt to open himself up so wide. Then, bravely, he forced himself to look back, to say with his eyes the things he couldn't say aloud.

And Scott tipped Johnny's hat over his eyes.

He didn't need to rip down the wall in one painful moment. He already knew what lay behind it.

"We better get looking for those cousins of mine," Scott said.

Wes pulled out his pocket watch and winced.

"I'd better get back to work or I'll be a former constable," he said.

Wes shook hands with Scott.

"Will I see you again while you're here?" he asked.

"It depends on grandfather," Scott said somberly. "But I'll try, Wes."

"Do that, Scott. Another three years is too long to wait," Wes said, then bade Johnny good-bye as well.

Straining high to see over the crowd, Scott gave his brother a nudge and waved at the couple he'd spotted.

"Caroline! Gerald!" he shouted.

"Scott!" the woman caroled gaily, waving and dancing a little as she tried to see past the passersby.

Scott caught up his valise and pushed through the crowd, trailed by Johnny who had his saddlebags over his shoulder.

The woman ran to greet Scott who swung her high into the air in exuberance. The man with her was more restrained, but he gripped Scott's shoulder and wrung his hand when it was offered.

Johnny hung back a shy moment, using the time to study these people who might, through courtesy, be considered relatives of his.

The woman was a year or two older than Scott, about 28, Johnny guessed. She had a lithe, active figure and was quite beautiful. Her brown hair was curled in long ringlets that might have made her look like a young girl, but there were worry lines around her brown eyes that made her look more mature, but no less attractive. The shrewdness in her gaze when it passed over Johnny took her forever out of the "girl" category as far as he was concerned.

The man was very tall, as tall as Murdoch, with broad shoulders and big, heavy hands. He had a hard face marked with permanent lines of bitterness, but at the moment he looked relieved, as if he hadn't expected his cousin to make the trip safely.

In fact, both of them looked as much relieved as pleased to see Scott. Johnny could practically see tension oozing out of them as they greeted his brother, touching him as if to reassure themselves he was really there.

That's only natural, Johnny thought as he edged forward. It must have been worrying for them with Harlan so ill.

Johnny grinned to himself. And he'd bet the old buzzard was no easy patient. Harlan would be terrible, peevish, stubborn, argumentative. Why, those folks probably haven't had any rest for weeks, Johnny thought with amused sympathy.

"Caroline, Gerald, I'd like you to meet my brother, Johnny," Scott said. "Johnny, these are my cousins, Caroline and Gerald Garrett."

Johnny stepped forward, smiling genially, hand extended; then he froze as the atmosphere turned suddenly arctic.

Caroline and her husband exchanged a startled glance and hesitated, leaving Johnny with his hand awkwardly outstretched.

Damn! Scott cursed himself mentally for not mentioning Johnny's presence in his telegram, but he'd only had a few minutes to compose it. He should have thought ahead. He should have known it would be difficult, Scott told himself bitterly.

He saw the shutters fall in Johnny's eyes, not hot anger, just a blank, stoic acceptance that made Scott's blood burn in sympathy. Scott opened his mouth to say something, probably something he'd regret, but anything to break the tableau, when Caroline broke it for him.

"Oh!" she gasped, bringing up her hand to her mouth in a pretty gesture. "Oh, Johnny, I'm terribly sorry. You must think we're terribly rude …" With both hands, she grasped the hand Johnny was letting fall. "… but this is such a surprise! Scott's told us so much about you, but he didn't tell us you were coming." She directed a scolding look at Scott. "You naughty boy."

Scott relaxed a trifle while admitting his fault.

Caroline was laying it on a little thick, he judged, but at least she had Johnny smiling again, though only faintly. Scott wondered if Johnny was buying the act, and decided he wasn't. Johnny wouldn't expect Scott's "high-toned" relatives to love him at first sight. A little politeness would be enough. And Caroline was laying on the politeness with a shovel.

A manure shovel, Scott thought, hiding a grin. He wondered why she was so nervous. Probably his grandfather's illness, Scott judged. He loved his grandfather, but had no illusions about Harlan's temperament.

"Jerry, say 'hello' to Scott's brother," Caroline scolded. "Prove to him we really do have manners."

There was a bite in Caroline's words that made her husband flush. Hurriedly, awkwardly, he took the hand Johnny risked for a second time. Though he looked like a man with a firm grip, he barely touched Johnny's hand before dropping it again. Then he put his hand in his pocket as if to restrain himself from wiping it on his trousers.

Still, he mouthed all the correct welcoming phrases. He even managed to force his glum features into a semblance of a friendly smile, as he led the Lancers to a waiting carriage.

Caroline had apparently recovered from her first meeting jitters by the time the carriage was rolling through the Boston streets. She chatted with Johnny, pointed out the sights and generally dominated the conversation.

Even Gerald loosened up to make a few condescending remarks about the distinguished history and illustrious society of the Cradle of Liberty.

Johnny ignored the man's attitude. He plied the Boston couple with questions some of them naive but none of them stupid. He took a child's delight in seeing places he'd only heard about in infrequent school lessons.

Scott was content to leave the others to their sightseeing. The closer he got to the Garrett home, the quieter he got. Seeing again the city where he'd grown up brought out a strange jumble of emotions which he couldn't sort out. There was an echo of the powerful pleasure he'd felt upon returning from the war; but it was only an echo, because Boston wasn't his home any longer. Yet it had been his home most of his life, and he was fond of the city. Then worry about his grandfather mixed in, plus a touch of nervousness, after the trouble they'd had at the ranch. It was enough to make him nauseated.

When the matched team of hackneys clip-clopped over the cobblestones into the South Bay area, the rest of the carriage passengers fell silent, too.

Without the sights of the old town to inspire them, the Garretts couldn't maintain a conversation with Johnny. The Westerner hardly noticed. He was absorbing the sights of the South Bay with open-mouthed wonder. The crowded city with its tall buildings had given way to a residential district where graceful houses fronted on manicured lawns, where spring flowers sang a symphony of colors around park fountains whose dancing waters formed rainbows to match the flowers.

To the young man who'd lived his 25 years amidst the scrub and semi-desert of the arid southwest, the South Bay looked like a dream beyond dreaming.

The former gunfighter leaned across his brother to get a last look at a particularly spectacular garden. A slow, fond smile grew on Scott's face. The anxieties fluttering in his stomach died away.

"Well, what do you think, Johnny boy?" he asked softly.

"I'll tell you, Boston, I don't know how Murdoch got you to leave," Johnny said with a contented sigh. "It's … purty."

Scott leaned close to Johnny's ear. "But in January it's a muddy mess!"

Johnny burst out laughing, startling the Garretts who hadn't been able to hear the soft-spoken conversation. In the release of nervous tension, the paltry joke gave the Lancers a recurring fit of the giggles that lasted to the door of Harlan Garrett's home.


	4. Is His Castle

**Chapter 4**

… **Is His Castle**

_**The Garrett Mansion, Boston**_

Caroline leaned out of the carriage to say good-bye.

"We won't come in. I'm afraid Uncle Harlan is a bit angry with me. He made me promise not to wire you about his heart condition, but I just had to."

Scott took the hand she daintily offered and squeezed it.

"I'm glad you did."

"Actually, I think he is, too. He bellowed at me frightfully when I told him yesterday, but then he sent Hodges scurrying around to set up a family dinner for tomorrow night," she smiled at the memory.

"Then we'll see you tomorrow," Scott said, releasing her hand.

Caroline gave Johnny an unreadable glance. "Oh, my dear, we wouldn't miss it for the world!" she said with mischievous sincerity.

Scott understood her too well. As he watched the carriage roll down the gravel drive, he wished his grandfather hadn't arranged a family dinner. It was nothing to inflict on his brother, but there was no help for it now.

"So this is where you grew up," Johnny said. He studied the stately house with interest.

"This is it," Scott confirmed, as he mounted the steps and rang the doorbell.

"It's tall," Johnny commented, craning his neck to see to the roof of the three-story-plus-attic dwelling. He was stalling and his brother knew it.

"Yes. It is," Scott said with patient amusement. "And it's more comfortable inside," he hinted. "Are you coming?"

"You know, Harlan doesn't know I'm coming. When he sees me, he's liable to have another heart attack," Johnny said half-seriously.

"Don't worry, brother. We'll break the awful news to him gently," Scott replied, deadpan.

Grinning, Johnny bounded up the stairs, just as the door swung open. The tall, thin, elderly butler didn't see Scott standing to one side. He addressed himself to Johnny.

"May I help you, sir?"

"You could start by letting us in, Hodges," Scott said.

"Mr. Scott! We weren't expecting you for hours! Oh, come in, please!"

A hand on his brother's shoulder to prevent him from bolting, Scott guided Johnny across the threshold. Johnny was nervous, but he was also fascinated by the sparkling candelabra in the entry way and the broad staircase that curved upward gracefully.

With the door safely shut, Scott dropped his valise and wrung the old man's trembling hands. The butler's eyes were shining.

"It's good to see you again, Hodges," Scott said warmly.

"Sir!" There was a volume of emotion in the one word. "Your grandfather will be so glad to see you. He's been a lonely man since he visited you in California."

"Speaking of which…" Scott caught Johnny's shoulder and pulled him forward. "Hodges, I'd like you to meet my brother, Johnny Lancer. Johnny, this is Hodges. He and his wife Sarah helped raise me — and my mother. They've been with the family so long, they are family."

"Any family of Scott's is family of mine," Johnny said, reaching to grip Hodges' hand. It was an action the butler didn't expect, but he gripped the hand firmly to not offend the Westerner's customs.

"Mr. Lancer! I'm pleased to meet you, sir. Mr. Scott talks about you so much in his letters. But we weren't expecting you, sir. I'll make sure Dulcie has the … East Room ready for you."

Hodges cocked his head at Scott for approval.

"I suppose my room is still in the same place," Scott teased.

"Oh, yes sir!" the old Englishman smiled. "You'll find everything just the way you left it. Not a thing's been touched."

"Then I agree. The East Room will be best."

Hodges touched a bell in the entryway, a discreet but emphatic summons which brought the rest of the staff on the run. A dark-eyed Irish minx with a face that looked plain until her smile set the room alight, Dulcie caromed down the stairs and nearly plowed into her downstairs counterpart. downstairs maid, Estelle, dodged with practiced ease and brushed her spectacular auburn hair back from her admittedly horsy face. Both young women brightened when they saw Scott. They offered somewhat breathless greetings that chimed with pleasure.

"Well, Dulcie girl," Scott greeted her. "How's your friend the milkman, hmm?"

The staff members laughed.

"Heavens, Mr. Scott," Estelle put in. "Why that was three years ago, that was. She must have had a hundred beaus since then. It's the fishmonger now, isn't it, love?" she teased her friend.

"Ah, no. That was all of Tuesday," Dulcie responded with great seriousness. "It's Fred the grocer who's taking me to the dance Saturday."

"And how about you, Estelle. Ever persuade that Henry of yours to pop the question?"

By way of answering, Estelle displayed the engagement ring on her hand. "We've set the date for September," she said shyly.

"He's a lucky man," Scott said sincerely. He gave the girl a peck on the cheek which had her blushing as red as her hair.

"Where's Mrs. Hodges gotten to?" Hodges wondered aloud, to help cover Estelle's embarrassment. He called for his wife.

She scurried out of the kitchen on plump legs, ineffectually wiping floury hands on an equally floury apron. Streaks of flour made her salt-and-pepper hair even grayer than usual. Another smudge of flour powdered her nose.

"Whatever do you want, Mr. Hodges? How can I fix that berry pie for Mr. Scott if you keep calling me out of the kitchen?"

"And I suppose there's pot roast and yams and chowder to go with that pie," Scott said fondly. "All my favorites?"

Mrs. Hodges head snapped up and she froze between one step and the next. Scott went to her and leaned down to plant a kiss on her floury forehead.

"You've come early!" she wailed. "I didn't want you to catch me looking like this."

"I think it's only appropriate for the most beautiful woman in the world to powder her nose with flour and perfume herself with apples and cinnamon. Anything else simply wouldn't be home," Scott said.

He looked fondly into the tearful eyes of the woman who had been the stable influence in his life through a succession of nurses and governesses. She had made his cookies and wiped his tears. There was no way she could look bad to Scott, and she knew it.

Mrs. Hodges gave him a quick hug around the neck.

"It's so good to have you home."

"It's good to be here …" Scott caught Johnny's eye. "… for awhile."

Scott introduced his brother to the women who responded with pleased surprise and quick interest. Dulcie assured Hodges that all the rooms were made up and ready, including Scott's room and the East Room next to it.

Scott realized the household staff was missing a member. He looked around and said, "Where's Justin? Out running an errand?"

From the stricken looks on all the faces, even Johnny knew something was wrong.

"Sir." Hodges had to swallow before he could continue. "Justin was killed in a street accident a week ago, the day after Miss Caroline sent for you."

Scott's expressions of sympathy were sincere. Michaelson had been a fussy young man; but he'd worked as hard as he fussed and had always been willing to help in ways that weren't properly his job.

Scott asked what happened.

"We don't understand it," Hodges said. "It was raining and the constables say he slipped and fell under the wheels of a beer wagon. But we don't know why he was in the city. No one even knew he was gone until the constable came to tell us he was dead."

"It was the worst day of my life," Dulcie said with no sign of exaggeration. "Everything was so confused. Everyone was so upset. Mr. Garrett had been taken ill the night before with the whole family here and the house was in an uproar. No one knew where anyone was. We were all so tired, being up most of the night. We were just starting to feel better, knowing Mr. Garrett was improving, when the constable came."

There were tears in her eyes at the memory.

Hodges straightened up and put a snap in his voice to bring everyone back to a semblance of normality.

"Well, the poor boy's gone and no one to mourn him but ourselves. But he'd be rightly angry with us for doing our mourning here in the front hall. It's scarcely proper!" he said, with a fair imitation of Michaelson's most scandalized tones.

The members and Scott chuckled. The maids sniffed back tears and started to return to their tasks.

Scott picked up his valise to go upstairs when a new voice cut into the babble of conversation.

"What's all the noise here? You're disturbing my patient," a man said jovially.

The fair-haired Lancer looked surprised when he surveyed the man descending the stairs. The man was in his early 30s, a couple of years older than Scott. He had blond hair set off by the black top hat he wore. His green frock coat gave him an elegant appearance only slightly marred by the battered black doctor's bag he carried.

"Well! Hello, Ben. Are you treating grandfather? Why didn't Caroline tell me?"

"I suppose she thought it was obvious, Scott," the doctor said, extending his hand in greeting. "I mean, who else? Your grandfather has always been healthy as a horse. He didn't have a personal physician; so when he was taken ill, Caroline sent for me."

The servants eased out of the room, leaving family business to family. With apologies, Hodges and Dulcie edged past the doctor to go upstairs, Dulcie to double-check the bedrooms, Hodges to tell his employer about the Lancers' arrival.

"And what exactly is wrong with Scott's grandfather?" Johnny asked, leaning casually against the bannister.

The doctor raised his eyebrows in a question. Scott obliged by introducing his brother to Dr. Benjamin Fraser.

Fraser appraised the Westerner with a swift glance, then dismissed him. Johnny caught Scott's gaze and threw his eyes heavenward. Scott too was tired of this cavalier treatment.

"My brother asked you a question," he said without any special emphasis. But his eyes snapped.

Fraser seemed unperturbed.

"Of course. I'm afraid there's not much I can do for your grandfather, Scott," he said seriously. "His heart has been weakened by age. He has some good spells. The medicine helps a little. But I'm afraid he's only got two, maybe three months to live."

Scott's gray eyes went dark with pain at this confirmation of his worst fears. The wall behind him was welcome support.

"I'm sorry, old man. Truly." Fraser touched Scott's arm sympathetically. "I have to leave." He checked his pocket watch. "I'm already late for another appointment. If there's anything you need, you know where to reach me."

He hesitated for a moment, waiting for a reply; but Scott hardly knew he was still there. It was Johnny who thanked the doctor and ushered him out the door.

Johnny's eyes were worried when he went back to Scott. He'd seen his brother look less beaten after coming out on the losing end of a barroom brawl.

"Scott." He gripped his brother's arm tightly until Scott raised his head to look at him. "Scott, doctors have been wrong before. This Fraser is pretty young. Maybe he's made a mistake."

"I've known Ben Fraser all my life," Scott said bleakly. "He isn't one to take a stand unless he's sure."

"Now, come on," Johnny encouraged, trying a different tack. "You can't let Harlan see you like this. It'll only make him feel worse. If it's his time, then you can't do anything about it. You can make his last months happy by being here with him; but not if you look as low as a snake's belly."

Scott gave him a very small smile. He put his hand on Johnny's shoulder for a long moment; then used that grip to push himself upright. His feet dragged wearily, but his chin was up, when he mounted the stairs.

* * *

><p>Scott was putting the last of his things into a bureau drawer when Johnny came through the connecting door from the East Room.<p>

"That's a nice room," he commented, as he began an exploration of the room that had been Scott's since his childhood. "It's handy," he added, poking through some knickknacks collected on a shelf.

"Most guests don't care for it," Scott said as Johnny bounced on the bed, testing it. "They say the sun shines in and wakes them up too early in the morning; but I knew you wouldn't mind."

"Isn't that when you're supposed to get up?"

Johnny swiveled his legs across the bed and went to check out the gallery of picture on the far wall.

"That's why I knew you wouldn't mind," Scott said. "And, as you said, the connecting door makes it handy."

"Uh huh," Johnny agreed absently. He studied the two, hand-colored engravings of birds by some fella named Audubon, which occupied places of honor on the wall. They were surrounded by a gathering of formally posed photographs. In one, Johnny recognized Scott's mother from a photograph Murdoch had. In another, a younger Harlan posed with a boy who had to be Scott.

"Find anything you like?" Scott asked, amused by Johnny's habit of investigation.

Like a cat, the former gunfighter couldn't settle down until he'd poked his nose into every corner.

"Which one is you?" he asked, peering at a blurred group photo of seven young men in front of an ivy-covered building.

Scott leaned over his brother's shoulder and pointed.

Johnny nodded recognition and turned to another photo.

"How about this one?"

A knock at the door interrupted Scott's answer.

Hodges entered at Scott's invitation.

"Mr. Garrett would like to see you both now, if you're ready, sirs."

"Both of us?" Johnny was caught off balance by the request.

"Yes sir. Mr. Garrett always welcomes visitors to his home. It's an unfailing rule of his."

"I don't know, Scott," Johnny appealed to his brother.

Scott chuckled.

"Come on, brother," he said, pushing Johnny out the door ahead of him. "You came three thousand miles with me. Are you going to shy at the last few feet?"

Johnny acquiesced, but let Scott precede him into Harlan's room.

"Scotty!" The old man's eyes lit up when he saw his grandson.

"Grandfather."

In one move, Scott was seated beside the bed, clasping Harlan's trembling hands.

For a long time they just looked at each other, too choked up to speak. Scott fought to keep the shock he felt from showing on his face; but Harlan could see the tears in Scott's eyes and knew the reason for them.

"There will be no weeping in my home, boy," he said gruffly. "I told that wretched girl not to send for you. If you're going to soak my bed sheets with tears, then I'll send you back to California on the next train."

Scott wiped his eyes, sat up straight and attempted a smile.

"Then I'd better be good, hadn't I, grandfather?"

"You always were, Scotty," Harlan said very softly.

Any lingering doubts Johnny might have had about the veracity of Harlan's illness had been laid to rest. The man who had locked horns with the Lancers on their home range had been fit, with a springiness in his step that belied his white hair. The man in the bed was shrunken, his face thin and wasted. He looked 20 years older than when Johnny had met him a year ago.

But the eyes he turned on Johnny were as shrewd as ever.

"So, Johnny. Did you come along to keep my grandson out of trouble — or to find out if the old fox was faking?"

"Grandfather!"

Johnny snorted. He straddled a chair and made himself comfortable with his chin resting on its back.

"Actually, I came so Scott wouldn't have to be alone when he buried you; but you don't look ready for burying, yet," he said pleasantly.

"Johnny!"

Scott was shocked. Harlan burst out laughing, until a coughing fit stopped him.

"Couldn't you two act like adults?" Scott asked in exasperation, as he helped Harlan sip from a glass of water.

"Now Scotty. Your brother and I have an understanding. I disapprove of him and he distrusts me. It's perfectly simple."

"Sure, Scott. Nothing to worry about," Johnny agreed.

They both looked at him so innocently, Scott smiled in spite of himself. He sat down, shaking his head.

Harlan took his hands again. "That 's better, boy. It's good to see you again. Even better to see you smiling. Now, what are you going to do during your visit?"

"I came to spend time with you."

"Nonsense. You can't spend your entire visit sitting by an old man's bed. Let's make some plans. Maybe Johnny would enjoy seeing one of those New York games. I understand there's one scheduled for tomorrow afternoon."

Scott looked at Johnny who just looked bewildered.

"No, I don't think so, grandfather. Johnny doesn't like his fun 'organized'," Scott said.

Harlan pondered for a moment.

"Well, of course, there will be several dances tomorrow night, since it's Saturday; but I was hoping to arrange a family gathering."

"That's already arranged. Caroline told us," Scott said.

"Do I get a voice in this discussion?" Johnny asked.

"Is there something in particular you'd like to do?" Harlan asked in some surprise, knowing Johnny had no knowledge of the city.

Johnny looked embarrassed.

"I'd like to see some more of Boston," he began.

"The historic sites? Faneuil Hall? The North Church? The harbor where they dumped the tea?" Harlan was frankly incredulous.

"No." Johnny looked across the room, hunting for words that eluded him. Finally he turned to his brother.

"I want to see your Boston, Scott. I want to see that Harvard school and the places you liked to go, and …"

The words escaped him again, so he could only shrug and give a pleading look.

Scott was touched, but was careful not to let it show, because he knew he would only embarrass Johnny further.

It's just three years, Scott thought. We know all the important things about each other, but hardly any of the little things.

"Then I guess that's what we'll do tomorrow, grandfather. I'll take Johnny and show him the haunts of my youth and introduce him to all my 'low' friends."

Scott grinned at the old argument, which was now a shared joke.

"Oh, I'm sure he'll enjoy that," Harlan said sarcastically.

* * *

><p>As soon as he could politely manage it, Johnny left Scott and his grandfather to talk alone. The younger Lancer set off to explore the big house.<p>

When it was time for Harlan's prescribed afternoon nap, Scott went looking for his brother, wondering what his cat's curiosity had gotten him into.

Knowing Johnny, the first place Scott tried was the kitchen. There he found his brother, drinking milk, eating Mrs. Hodges cookies and debating with Hodges, while Mrs. Hodges listened from her breadboard.

Unnoticed, Scott paused in the doorway to eavesdrop on the conversation. He could tell by the set of his brother's shoulders and the tilt of his head that Johnny was bent on mischief.

"No, Mr. Lancer. It isn't 'Mr. Hodges,' just 'Hodges'," the butler explained carefully.

Johnny thought about it, "No, that doesn't seem right. Not if you're going to keep on with that Mr. Lancer stuff," he replied. "I'm still not real used to the Lancer name, you know. I look around for Murdoch every time you say it."

"I'm sorry if it makes you feel uncomfortable, sir; but as I am employed by your brother's family, nothing else would be proper," Hodges said firmly.

Johnny considered the problem some more, taking long, thoughtful sips from the glass of milk.

"There are a lot of people who work for us on the ranch," he said finally. "And none of them call me, 'Mr. Lancer'."

"I understand things are more … informal out West, sir," Hodges said politely.

"It just doesn't seem right, Mr. Hodges. It seems to me that if you're 'just a servant' like you say, then you're supposed to do what I want. So suppose I demanded that you call me 'Johnny'?"

The younger Lancer looked at the butler with polite curiosity.

Hodges had to fight to keep his jaw from dropping. He transformed his stare into a glare at his wife who hadn't been able to stifle a giggle. At the door, Scott almost choked trying to remain silent.

Before Hodges could recover, Johnny continued, "After all, you don't call Scott, 'Mr. Lancer'."

Hodges' voice sounded hoarse when he replied. Scott could tell he was fighting to maintain his butler's composure.

"Mr. Scott does allow me that liberty, since I've known him from his childhood. I suppose I could bring myself to call you 'Mr. John,' if you insisted, sir."

"If that's the best you can do, Mr. Hodges, then I guess it'll have to do," Johnny said, deadpan.

"Just 'Hodges,' sir, please," the butler practically begged.

"All right, Hodges," Johnny said, not trying to hide his grin any longer. "If you can compromise, so can I."

"Thank you, Mr. John," the butler said with profound relief.

When he pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his red face, his wife and Scott couldn't restrain their laughter. Hodges tried to glare them silent, but lost the struggle with his own sense of humor and permitted himself a wry chuckle.

So what do you think of my brother the horse trader?" Scott asked as he slapped Johnny on the shoulder.

"I'd say he was much more satisfactory than Chester Lee, Mr. Scott."

Scott gaped at the answer, then began to laugh harder. Both the Hodges smiled.

"Some other time, Johnny," Scott answered the question in Johnny's eyes. "Are there any more of those cookies, Mrs. Hodges?"

**To be continued**


	5. The Old Hometown

**Chapter 5**

**The Old Hometown**

A quiet day and an early night left the Lancer boys ready for their day on the town. Used to a different tempo of life, the ranchers were up before the rest of the household. A prolonged raid on the pantry still allowed them to leave the house at the first light of dawn. Birds were beginning to chirp sleepily as Scott led Johnny along the manicured path to the stable.

At the stable they got their first hint that they weren't the only people awake in the city. From a pool of lantern light, which had yet to be absorbed by the light of day, the wiry stableman rose to greet them.

The New Englander didn't match Johnny's meager inches but had forearms thick with ropes of muscle. He removed a clay pipe from his mouth. With the care of someone who spent his life in a world of dry straw, he extinguished the pipe and disposed of the ashes.

"Mr. Lancer," he greeted Scott laconically, as if Scott had been gone for three days instead of three years. He added a nod of greeting for Johnny.

"Mr. Random." Scott matched the stableman's grave manner.

Random acknowledged the introduction of Johnny with a handshake. Johnny recognized a difference in attitude. Random was an employee of the house, not a servant.

"Mr. Hodges said you'd be down early. Jeff'll have Bess and Dancer saddled in a minute."

"Hello, Bess, old girl," Scott said to the sleek black mare the stable boy led out. He stroked her neck fondly and she nuzzled his chest. "Civilian life agrees with you, girl."

He gave her a final pat and entered the stable.

The men strolled through the stalls discussing the animals. Scott greeted old friends, telling Johnny about their exploits, and questioned Random about the newcomers.

The stomp and jingle of the horses, the warm scents and casual conversation, all made Johnny feel at home. More relaxed than he'd felt since he boarded the train, Johnny left the stable, and the familiar feelings vanished.

"What is that?" he exclaimed. He walked around the bay gelding, past the bewildered stable boy. He ducked under Dancer's barrel and looked at Scott over the horse's back. "What is it?"

Startled into presumption, the stableboy replied, "It's a riding saddle!"

"Son, I've spent half my life in the saddle, and none of them looked anything like that! That's no saddle, that's a … a postage stamp! I'd rather ride bareback!"

Random tilted back his cap and scratched his head.

"Well, sir, I should have thought of that. But I don't know what I could have done about if I had. We don't have a Western-style saddle on the place."

"Maybe we can find a compromise," Scott said. "Tell me, do you still have my cavalry gear around?"

A sudden grin creased Random's leathery face.

"You must be joking, Mr. Lancer. Do you suppose your grandfather would allow anything of yours to be thrown away? Don't I still have the pony saddle you first learned to ride on?"

Scott shook his head at his grandfather's predictability.

Random and his grandson removed the offending English saddles and went to exchange them.

As he got to know the leggy gelding, Johnny asked Scott why Random called him "Mr. Lancer," when everyone else called him, "Mr. Scott."

"I don't know, Johnny," Scott replied. "He's called me 'Mr. Lancer' with grave formality ever since I turned six. I never thought to ask him why."

Random returned, carrying a shiny black and silver saddle. At a nod from Scott, he threw it over Bess' back. As he adjusted the cinch, Johnny asked him just that.

The stableman shuffled his feet and looked embarrassed. Scott looked surprised.

"Mr. Random?" Scott came around the horse to face the older man.

"It wasn't my place to say so, but I didn't approve of the way your grandfather was raising you," Random said slowly. "Didn't think it was right to keep a boy from his father, if you'll excuse me for saying so."

"Go ahead, please," Scott urged.

"See, I met your father once or twice when he was courting Miss Katherine. Nice man. Horses like him." It was Random's highest praise. "It was more than six years later, on your fifth birthday, when he came to claim you. Mr. Garrett sent him packing. I never saw, never want to see, such hurt on a man's face again. But when he came out of the house, with all that on his mind, he thanked me by name for taking care of his horse."

"Sounds like Murdoch," Johnny commented.

Scott nodded, a lump in his throat. It was only a year since he'd found out about this visit, found out his grandfather had threatened to drag out a custody battle that would make Scott's childhood a nightmare. Murdoch had surrendered his son rather than make the child's life a battleground of hatred.

"So when they brought you out for your first riding lesson, I called you 'Mr. Lancer'," Random continued. "I suppose I didn't want you to forget your name."

Scott cleared away the lump.

"Thank you, Mr. Random," he said with grave courtesy.

"You're welcome, Mr. Lancer," Random replied, then busied himself with the mare who grew excited feeling the weight of cavalry gear again.

As Scott soothed Bess, he considered a side of Random he would never have seen except for Johnny's inquisitiveness. He decided it was going to be interesting to see Boston through his brother's eyes.

Johnny was thinking the same thing.

Eager to start exploring the city where Scott grew up, Johnny reached for the saddle Jeff brought out; but Random intercepted him politely. Saddling the Garret horses was his job.

Johnny rubbed the worn, brown leather in approval as the stableman cinched it up.

Neither the cantle nor the pommel was as high as the Western gear he was used to, but they formed a satisfactory seat. Like a cowboy's saddle, cavalry tack was designed for a man who had to spend days at a time in the saddle.

The saddle Random was checking was faded and battered, its leather discolored by spots. It was much more shabby than the shiny black parade gear Scott had appropriated. But Johnny could tell at a touch the old saddle was well broken in and more likely to be comfortable than Scott's. Another example of his brother's good manners, Johnny thought.

The younger Lancer rubbed thoughtfully at one of the darker stains, one that wasn't made by rain or sweat, but by blood spilled in the heat of battle. A movement from Bess made him half-turn.

Sitting tall and straight on the proud mare, Scott divined Johnny's thoughts.

"That one's not mine, brother," he said softly. Before Johnny could become embarrassed at seeming to pry, Scott kicked the mare into a fast walk. "Are you coming, or do I have to paint the town red all by myself?"

Johnny vaulted into the war-worn saddle and lit out after Scott.

##

Scott pointed out his first school in passing, but their first stop was at a tall, white church where the minister's wife accused Scott of deliberately coming by at breakfast. All the time she scolded, she was hustling the brothers off their horses and into the kitchen.

The minister, as delighted as his wife, proposed an even swap of stories with Johnny. Throughout the lavish meal, they traded stories about Scott to his amusement and discomfiture.

Scott took a small revenge on the reverend, though. He complimented Mrs. Dalkin on her cooking and her appearance, piling on the pretty phrases until her plump face was as flushed as a schoolgirl's.

Her husband only laughed comfortably.

"They're shameless flirts, the both of them," he confided to Johnny. "You can see why I don't dare leave them alone."

By the time they resumed their expedition into the heart of the city, with the Dalkins waving a happy good-bye, the city had come alive.

Hucksters cried their wares in the teeming markets. Cranes clattered and goods clunked to the ground near dockside warehouses while the wind trilled through the rigging of steep-masted sailing ships. An occasional steamer bustled upstream importantly, puffing clouds of smoke.

It was still early morning, but business was well underway in this national center of commerce.

Content to follow Scott's lead without question, Johnny drank in the flavor of Boston, enjoying the new taste. It reminded him of San Francisco, but Boston was an older, more sophisticated woman than wanton Frisco.

Gradually Johnny came to an uncomfortable awareness. He urged Dancer forward to ride knee-to-knee with Scott.

"People are staring at me," Johnny said.

"What did you expect, cowboy?" Scott replied.

Teresa had carefully packed Johnny's best suit into the saddlebags, but the dark suit with its conchoed belt, short jacket and white-beaded shirt was very Mexican in style. It pointed up the black hair he'd inherited from his mother. In the proper confines of Boston, Johnny looked positively exotic.

On the other hand, Scott fit right in. He had dressed in finery that he had left stored in his wardrobe in the Garrett mansion. The fashions smelled slightly of mothballs and were three years out of date, but styles didn't change very quickly in staid Boston.

Scott looked like he belonged, Johnny thought with envy.

"I feel like there's a wanted poster out with my name on it and everyone's wondering how soon they can collect," Johnny complained.

Unconsciously, his hand rubbed the thigh where the familiar weight of holster and revolver were missing.

"Fear not, brother. I have planned for this contingency," Scott pronounced grandly.

"What have you planned?" Johnny asked suspiciously.

"We are going to the finest tailor in the city and get you kitted out from your head to your toes."

"And what am I supposed to pay this tailor with? I don't suppose my pocket change is going to go far in this fancy town."

"Johnny, while you're in Boston, you're my guest. An uninvited guest, it's true, but still a guest. You leave the bills to me," Scott answered.

Johnny halted his horse in the middle of the street.

"Boston, I know to the penny how much money you make," said his equal partner. "So you tell me how you're going to afford it. If this is a handout from Harlan, I'm turning right around," Johnny threatened.

"Don't get your back up, Johnny. I'm grandfather's heir, but I don't look to him for my daily bread. When my mother died, she had some property that was held in trust for her, property that came from her mother's family. Now grandfather holds the property for me, in trust until my 30th birthday. Essentially, though, I've had control of it since I turned 18. Grandfather trusts me to use the funds with discretion, and I haven't managed to spend it all, yet."

Scott paused and looked west, as if he could see all the way to California.

"Still, there have been times when money got tight at Lancer, when I wished I had full control. Oh, I know grandfather would have sent me the money if I'd asked, but I couldn't."

"No, not while the Great Lancer-Garrett Feud was going on," Johnny said.

Scott snorted in amused and rueful agreement.

"Besides Murdoch wouldn't have taken it," Johnny continued. "He wouldn't touch anything that came from Harlan."

"That's what I thought." Scott started his horse moving again. "But I've been thinking, brother. He wouldn't dare turn it down if I say it came from my mother."

"It doesn't matter," Johnny laughed. "When the time comes, if you want to put your money into the ranch fund, it's all right with me. And between us, we outvote Murdoch."

Chuckling, Scott dismounted in front of a discreet sign that read: "Goldberg and Katz, tailors."

Returned to the cause of the conversation, Johnny again looked uneasy.

"I'm not sure about this, Scott."

Scott looked up at his brother and remembered their first conversation at Lancer, when his own Eastern clothes had been the topic.

"Brother, if you're going to stay around here, 'those just ain't the style'," Scott quoted.

Johnny remembered. "'Of course I'm going to stay'," he quoted in response.

He tied his horse to the rail and followed his brother into the shop.

##

"Mr. Lancer!"

The proprietor came to greet Scott with a cry of joy. "When I heard you were in town, I knew you would come to see me. Abe …" He turned to his partner without releasing his grip on Scott's hand. "… didn't I tell you Mr. Lancer would be in?"

His partner nodded vigorously from the other side of the room where he was pinning some alterations in a suit. He waved at Scott cheerfully and mumbled a greeting through a mouthful of pins.

Not allowing Scott a chance to say hello or introduce Johnny, Samuel Goldberg dashed into the next room still talking.

"In fact, I was so sure you would come …" He returned carrying a navy blue suit. "… that I sat up last night making this for you."

Scott fingered the fine material, the finest in the shop, he suspected. He was touched and said so.

"No, don't thank me," the elderly tailor said. "In truth, I don't know why I did it." His eyes twinkling, he appealed to Johnny. "My best customer runs off to California taking half my business with him. So I wonder to myself, why do I do him favors? But then I say to myself, Samuel, you must be charitable. Here is Mr. Lancer. He's been out in the wilderness for three years, fighting Indians, eating cactus. Nowhere could he find such a suit as I could make him. Nowhere, for I have no equals …"

Across the room, Katz nearly choked on his pins. Goldberg quelled his outburst with a grimace of mock ferocity.

"… So when he comes begging to you for a suit, you should have one ready. It is simple charity for one who has been so long deprived, don't you think?"

He seemed to expect a reply from Johnny, but the ex-gunfighter was at a loss for words. Scott came to his rescue by elaborately begging Goldberg's pardon for all the inconvenience he'd caused.

The old man waved the apologies away with a smile.

"We survive," he said, gesturing around the obviously prosperous shop. "Though it is true my wife must wear cotton instead of silk since you left."

Johnny found his voice.

"Even in California, Scott's considered a snappy dresser," he teased.

"But we didn't come to buy clothes for me," Scott interjected. "We came to get something for my brother. There's a dinner party tonight at my grandfather's home. Is there any chance of getting something on such short notice?"

Goldberg walked around Johnny, assessing him professionally. Murmuring appreciative comments about the workmanship, he touched the studs that ran up the trouser seam. Finally he called his partner over to confer. Reaching agreement, Katz went into the back room.

"We have a suit, newly made but never worn, which I think will fit you with some alteration."

"Don't tell me you were expecting Johnny, too," Scott said from behind the screen where he was trying on his suit.

"No sir. In fact, we made it for Mr. Desmond. But when he returned for it, he said he'd decided he didn't like the color and wouldn't pay for it."

"That sounds like Desmond," Scott said with a sour grimace. "He probably 'wouldn't' pay for it, because he was broke again."

He emerged from behind the screen as Katz entered from the back room carrying the other suit. The three-piece suits went well together. Scott's showed a faint check pattern in two scarcely different shades of navy. The one meant for Johnny was a restrained plaid in light blue and pale gray.

Goldberg checked the fit of Scott's suit as Katz hustled Johnny behind the screen.

"Such a memory I have," Goldberg complimented himself when he checked the length, the waist and the set of the shoulders. But he frowned at the tightness of the arms and legs.

"Ranch life puts on muscle," Scott apologized, though he was secretly pleased.

"No matter," Goldberg said manfully. "We can let out the seams to give you more room."

When Johnny emerged, the two tailors buzzed around him like mosquitoes. To the younger Lancer's embarrassment, they tugged at seams, prodded his shoulders and discussed his build as if he were a calf up for auction.

"We'll have to let out the shoulders and the upper arms, here," Katz said, poking.

"Yes, and take in the waist." Goldberg tugged at the pants.

Katz studied Johnny with approval. "Mr. Lancer will wear this suit better than Mr. Desmond ever could," he said stoutly.

"Be careful, Abe. You'll have him blushing in a minute," Scott teased, ignoring his brother's hot protests.

##

While the tailors made the necessary alterations, the Lancers prowled up and down the street, hunting accessories. They returned with new derbies, shoes, shirts and other paraphernalia, which they donned along with the new suits.

With boxes packed full of old clothes and profuse thanks on both sides, the Lancers continued their tour of the city. They headed back in the direction they had come.

"The city's too big to cover in one day," Scott explained. "So we'll stick to the south end, if you don't mind."

"Lead on, brother."

##

Scott seemed to have a specific destination in mind for he sent Bess along at a brisk walk. He pointed out the Old South meeting House as they passed, but didn't offer to stop.

Johnny didn't mind. Something else had attracted his attention.

"Scott, people are still staring at me," he complained.

Scott looked around in surprise, then chuckled.

"Look again, brother. It's only the ladies who are staring now."

Johnny looked again. A pretty little thing with a baby blue parasol fluttered her fingers at him from a passing open carriage. Johnny stared. Scott brought Bess back to bump Johnny's leg.

"In Boston, you tip your hat to a lady," he said.

Johnny hurriedly touched his hat as he turned to watch the carriage pass.

The girl giggled and blew him a playful kiss, then her parasol swung around to cut off Johnny's view. But he watched for a long time, anyway. His horse blocking the road drew some notice from the surrounding neighborhood. Before Scott could urge Johnny onward, a surprised voice hailed him from a nearby construction project.

Scott slid off his horse to meet the approaching man. The bricklayer wouldn't shake Scott's hand until he carefully wiped every grain of red brick dust off his weathered hands. And he kept well away from Scott even then.

"Wouldn't want to get dust all over that grand suit," the Irishman said.

A broad smile cracked his creased features. He had one of the ugliest faces Johnny had ever seen but he had a sweet baritone voice with a liquid Irish accent that sounded like music.

Scott introduced him as Peter Galway, the father of one of his Harvard classmates.

"My boy, Timmy," Galway told Johnny, who lounged in his saddle. "His pants are too short and his sleeves are frayed, but he's smart. He wins a scholarship to the best university in the country — he says. But when he goes there, no one speaks to him. No one shakes his hand, except this brother of yours."

"Believe me, Mr. Galway. The pleasure was all mine. How is Tim? Must be about ready to get his doctorate."

"That's right," the bricklayer said proudly. "At the end of the year he'll be Timothy Galway, Doctor of Medicine."

"Ah, it'll be a proud day," Scott said, imitating Galway's phrasing.

The Irishman laughed. "Aye, that it will," he said. "So I hear you've gone and taken up an honest profession," he teased. "My boy came home so surprised with that letter of yours. 'Father!' he says, 'Scott Lancer has moved to California to become a rancher! Can you believe it!' And I asked him why he was so surprised? Didn't he know there was a working man's heart under those fancy landlord's clothes?" He poked Scott in the spanking new vest.

Johnny laughed aloud. Scott shook his head in mock despair. Galway's foreman impatiently summoned the bricklayer back to work.

He apologized for going, but Scott explained he and Johnny were going to be late for lunch if they dawdled much longer. He gave the Irishman a farewell handshake and climbed aboard Bess.

The bricklayer backed toward his job. Cupping his hands into a trumpet he shouted after the riders.

"You're a grand man, Scott Lancer, and I'll fight the devil himself if he says otherwise!"

"You'll have to stand in line," Johnny muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing, brother. I didn't say a thing. Where's this lunch you promised me?"

As the horses jogged south, Scott saw a familiar carriage pass. He waved at the young lady inside. She looked surprised to see him. Her intelligence system wasn't as efficient as Goldberg's. She started to wave back, but the man across from her peered out, saw Scott and angrily yanked the window curtain closed.

The coachman and footman tried to maintain an air of stately dignity, but the whole effect was spoiled by the sound of loud parental parental rebukes coming from inside.

"That makes me feel better," Johnny said, riding up next to Scott.

"Why's that?" Scott laughed.

"I was beginning to think everyone in Boston absolutely adored you," Johnny said, only half serious. "It was making me feel…" He searched for the right word.

"Inadequate?" Scott suggested.

Johnny nodded.

Scott looked him over with polite disbelief.

He could remember Johnny glued to the back of a viciously bucking bronc or wrestling a heavy steer to the ground. Most of all, he could picture Johnny whirling, drawing and firing with such speed the eye couldn't encompass it but registered only the gun holstered and then the smoking gun in hand. Johnny was one of the most frighteningly adequate people Scott had ever met; and the proof of that adequacy, of course, was the fact that Johnny Madrid was still alive.

However, Scott didn't scoff at Johnny's feelings. He himself had often felt out of place in the West.

All Scott said was, "So far I've only introduced you to my friends. If I'd known you wanted to meet my enemies as well, I would have tried to arrange something."

Johnny shook his head, acknowledging the ridiculousness of the idea.

"Anyway," Scott continued sardonically. "I hoped we could have a quiet day today. Heaven knows it will be exciting enough tonight."

Considering the Garretts he'd already met, Johnny shuddered in exaggeration. Scott agreed wholeheartedly.

"Now, come on. You're going to make us late. If I miss my first Italian meal in three years, I'll make you pay for it, brother."

Scott kicked Bess into a fast canter.

Johnny hurried to keep up. "You and what regiment?" he shouted back.


	6. Hometown Boy

**Chapter 6**

**Hometown Boy**

The Sabbatinos were as glad to see Scott as everyone else seemed to be. Giorgio Sabbatino had been a customer of Harlan's, buying spices from the merchant for a loose organization of Italian restaurateurs. He'd headed the purchasing organization by the simple virtue of speaking the most English.

Scott and Giorgio's youngest son, Lou — never Luigi — had become playmates when Harlan took his grandson along on business visits.

Maria Sabbatino was frankly delighted that Scott thought enough of her cooking to visit their restaurant on his first day home. And she was pleased to know he thought enough of her family to visit during slack time when they could all talk.

When she found out Johnny had never tasted Italian food, she brought a sample of everything on the stove.

It was quite a party by the time the Lancers were finished. Word went around the neighborhood about Scott's visit. Other men and women he'd played with as children dropped in to say hello, often bringing their entire families for display. Many were curious about Scott's long lost brother. A genuine cowboy, imagine! But only the children showed their curiosity and it was an eager, inoffensive variety.

After the Lancers broke away, they made a quick tour of the docks so Scott could greet some of the sea captains who carried goods for his grandfather.

With the south end of the old city pretty well accounted for, Scott headed back toward the South Bay, where he knew the plans for dinner would be well underway.

Johnny wasn't thinking about meeting the rest of Scott's relatives. In his mind, he was turning over the events of the day and finding something underneath that he'd never wondered about until his visit to Boston.

He already knew that Scott treated everyone alike. He'd seen his brother treat down-on-their-luck saloon girls and dowdy farmer's wives with the same unfailing, friendly courtesy he used with high society ladies. Scott gave every man the benefit of the doubt. Never prejudging by the fact that the man was a Mexican vaquero, an Irish bricklayer or a New England banker. A man's background, nationality and social status never seemed to make any difference to Scott who valued honesty and courtesy far above those other matters.

Seeing Scott visit with all his "low" friends reminded Johnny of this democratic manner, which he'd always simply accepted as part of his brother's personality. Now that Johnny had a nodding acquaintance with Boston society, he couldn't understand why Scott was so nice.

Why wasn't Scott as stuck up, as stubbornly prideful, as condescending as his peers? As his family! Johnny wondered what had broken him out of the Garrett mold.

"Penny for your thoughts," Scott's voice broke into his reverie.

Johnny started and looked around. Without realizing it, he had followed his brother into a spacious park where picnickers relaxed and children frolicked.

With his usual embarrassment, Johnny shied from revealing his thoughts. Scott saw the withdrawal. A hint of sadness for the things Johnny didn't trust him to share sparked in the elder brother's eyes, but rueful laughter replaced it quickly.

"Sorry, didn't mean to pry," he said.

No, the Lancers never did pry into the scars that marked Johnny Madrid's life, and Johnny wouldn't normally have pried into Scott's. But the quick hurt in his brother's eyes made Johnny speak.

"You're not prying, but I would be if I told you what I was thinking."

Scott studied him curiously.

"Ask away, brother," he said lightly. "My life holds no secrets."

All Johnny's musings resolved themselves into their most personal essence, so the question that came out was, "Scott, how come it never bothered you that I was a half breed?"

The shock on Scott's face was as plain as the palm print of a slap.

Johnny plunged on, "I mean, it was a surprise to find out you had a brother at all. I know. But I spent a lifetime being kicked by both sides because I was half greaser, half gringo. But it never bothered you, even from the very beginning. I just wanted to know why …" Johnny let his voice trail off, already sorry he'd spoken.

White-faced, Scott stared at the peaceful park but the bitter set of his jaw showed that he saw something quite different.

Finally, remotely, he answered, "Why should you being a half breed bother me, when I'm one myself."

Bess snorted and danced, moved by the emotion Scott transmitted to her. The elder Lancer soothed his steed, dismounted and sat next to a tree. He pulled his knees to his face, breathing deeply. Gradually the tension within him relaxed. He looked up at Johnny who had joined him on the grass.

"Sorry," Johnny apologized. He remembered contritely that he was supposed to be cheering Scott up.

"I just wish you wouldn't sneak up with these questions and pounce on me," Scott replied, with a trace of his normal good humor. "I don't know why it hit me so hard, anyway. It's all long past, dead and basically forgotten. I suppose it's because I've done so much reminiscing today. It's brought my childhood back — too vividly."

He eyed his brother quizzically. "Are you sure you want to hear this. It amounts to my entire life story."

Johnny did want to hear the story. The Lancers had 20 years of catching up to do and never seemed to have the time. Yet, Johnny didn't want to hear the story if Scott didn't want to tell it. Privacy was one of the family's unspoken, but unbroken, rules.

The youngest Lancer didn't know how to answer his brother. Fortunately, Scott didn't seem to expect an answer. He had only used his question to gain a little time to gather his thoughts.

"To Boston society, there isn't much difference between the son of a Mexican and an American, or the son of a society lady and an immigrant Scot. Both affairs are scandalous. I wasn't made fully aware of this until I started school — an exclusive, private school. I was an outcast — Scotty the Scot. Every day, for weeks, I went home fighting back the tears so grandfather wouldn't see. I discovered the few friends I had were out of pity for grandfather and me. I overheard the mother of one of my playmates tell a friend, 'Of course he only married her for her money. When she died and left a baby instead of a fortune, why, he packed the child off to live with Harlan, poor lamb."

Scott gazed at the long past, staring straight ahead. Johnny lay back, chewing a stalk of grass, trying to visualize the scene.

"I hated Murdoch in those days, Johnny. I hated him for making me different. I hated him for not coming for me. I suppose I should have hated my schoolmates for tormenting me, but they were all in agreement, so I figured they must be right. But when grandfather heard about it, he told me it was nonsense. My blood was as good as any of theirs. I felt better after that, because grandfather was always right."

Scott quirked a faint smile for his childhood devotion.

"Then it became a matter of forcing the other boys to like me. I learned to fight for my rights, and to talk myself out of trouble when I was overmatched. Things never seemed as bad after that.

"It was about the same time I got to know all my 'low' friends. Grandfather had always taken me along on his 'rounds,' when he visited his customers to check on the honesty of his clerks. For a long time, I was too shy to get out of the carriage. Once I felt I'd mastered the talent of making friends, I practiced it in the Italian section, and the Irish section, on the docks, and in the city."

Scott laughed, a real smile filling his face.

"When grandfather found out, he had a fit," the elder Lancer said. "He forbade me to have anything more to do with those 'low-lifes.' I told him their blood was as good as mine. We had the biggest argument of my youth then. Lancer pride and Garrett stubbornness — or is it the other way around?"

Johnny chuckled. "The other way around," he said with certainty.

"You ought to know, brother," Scott said sardonically, which only made Johnny laugh more. The dark-haired ex-gunfighter rolled over on his stomach and regarded his brother.

"So what happened then?"

Scott laughed aloud.

"So then I grew up, brother. I made friends with the people of whom grandfather approved. It wasn't hard once Boston society came to realize 'Scott the Scot' was the heir to Harlan Garrett's fortune. But I also kept my own friends, and if grandfather didn't approve, at least he was happy I wasn't going behind his back. He sent me to Harvard to break me of my 'foolish' notions; but I already knew I didn't want to live off money earned by my grandparents and great-grandparents. I wanted to make some contribution. I wanted to work with my hands, but people of my class didn't do such things. It would have broken my grandfather's heart if I had sunk so low.

"Then the war started. Is it terrible to say that it was the best thing that happened to me before I met you and Murdoch? And it was also the worst thing I ever faced."

Scott stopped, brooding on the darkling past.

"Grandfather paid someone to take my place in the army, but I took Bess, rode straight to General Sheridan, and volunteered. He was glad to have me, at least I could ride. Half the recruits couldn't. I worshiped that little man. We all did. I would have gladly followed Little Phil into hell, and I did. Well, you know about the prison camp."

Johnny knew. That was a piece of Scott's past which had followed him clear to California and had almost gotten him killed before the truth came out.

"After I escaped from the prison camp, I was home for awhile, recuperating; but I had rejoined my outfit by the time the war ended," Scott continued. "I stayed with the Seventh Cavalry, and we were sent to Kansas to guard the settlers. Fighting for the Union had been important; but in Kansas it was nothing but slaughter. The Indians massacred the settlers; we massacred the Indians. The day I found out we had wiped out a village where the oldest brave was nine was the day I resigned my commission. Besides, Custer was in command by then. I never did see eye to eye with that pompous jackass."

When Scott stopped, Johnny demanded, "What then?"

"You want it all, huh? Then I went back home to Boston where I was at loose ends until Murdoch sent his Pinkertons after me. The rest you know, brother."

Johnny lay back, contemplating the cloud-dotted sky, letting Scott's confidences sink in. Scott watched children play on the green, remembering games of his own. Finally he shook himself awake.

"Are you finished asking embarrassing questions?"

"Uh huh."

"Then I think I deserve a drink."

Johnny brightened and bounced to his feet. "Now you're talking!" he said enthusiastically.

"I know a place just the other side of the park," Scott said. He brushed grass off his protesting brother and, with a tsk tsk, straightened the new suit before it could rumple further.

Finally satisfied with Johnny's appearance, Scott set off. As he led Bess down the path, he said, "You know, brother, you owe me for this."

"Owe you what, brother?" Johnny said, grinning.

"A story, Johnny Madrid. You owe me one heck of a story!"

##

When they left the park, Johnny panted obviously and asked, "Well, where is this place?"

Scott pointed at a sedate building with a polished mahogany door and gleaming brass fittings. An imposing doorman with more ribbons and fancy decorations than a war hero, stood at attention beside the door.

Johnny came to a dead stop, but when Scott continued forward without looking back, Johnny tugged Dancer's reins and reluctantly followed.

"I might have known you couldn't find an ordinary-looking saloon in Boston," he confided to the horse in a voice to low for Scott to hear.

Scott answered his brother's complaint anyway. In some ways, he knew Johnny well enough to read his mind.

"It's not a saloon. It's a club. I used to be a member. Of course, I haven't paid any dues in two years, but perhaps Hargate will let us in for old times sake."

As they tethered their horses, Scott raised his voice in greeting. The doorman smiled politely, as if he'd seen Scott only yesterday.

"Welcome, Mr. Lancer. It's been too long." He opened the door wide for them to enter.

Scott raised his eyebrows. "I didn't expect such a warm welcome for a lapsed member," he said.

"I beg your pardon, sir, but your membership is paid in full," Hargate corrected.

Scott looked surprised, but Johnny began to laugh uncontrollably. When the other two looked at him, he gasped at Scott, "Don't you see? Everything just the way you left it …" He dissolved in laughter again.

Scott grimaced at him.

"Is he often like this, Mr. Lancer?" the doorman asked politely.

"Only when he's thirsty," Scott said pointedly, pushing his red-faced brother ahead of him.

Johnny straightened and gazed around in satisfaction. This was one high-class saloon, I mean club. The decor was tasteful, with top quality furnishings and fittings, but the furnishings included a long, curved bar, upholstered in dark, and dimpled leather. And the fittings included rows of polished glasses and gleaming bottles. That was the kind of decor even Johnny Madrid could appreciate.

As Scott and Johnny hung their hats on the rack provided, the manager of the club appeared. Wilson greeted Scott cordially and welcomed Johnny as an honored guest, before allowing them to proceed to the inviting bar.

The comfortable saloon room was about half full of young men chatting in quiet groups. Several raised their voices above the muted hum of conversation to call surprised greetings to Scott. The elder Lancer returned the greetings cheerfully, promising to come back as soon as he and Johnny slaked their thirsts.

"I don't suppose they have any tequila here," Johnny said wistfully, with a touch of homesickness.

"We can ask," Scott said kindly. "But you'll probably have to settle for their excellent beer."

Upon conversation with the bartender, they learned that, indeed, there was no tequila in the house. And the bartender was of the opinion that they would be hard put to find any in the entire city. Johnny settled for the beer, and found he agreed with Scott about its quality.

The brothers were leaning against the bar, savoring the first, thirst quenching swallows, when a belligerent voice cut loudly across the barroom.

"Lancer!"

At the sound of trouble, Johnny tensed. His right hand dropped in conditioned reflex to the hip where his gun should have rested. Finding it missing, Johnny felt a twinge of disorientation, which was quickly suppressed.

Since this was Scott's range, Johnny turned toward his brother to follow his lead. He found Scott had turned to lean, with exaggerated casualness, against the bar. The fair-haired Lancer smiled in amusement, measuring his opponent with cool, critical eyes and finding him sadly wanting.

Scott's manner made it appear that trouble was in the offing, but not serious trouble. Johnny relaxed a trifle, but only a trifle. He'd seen Scott look just as casual when facing a dozen guns.

The belligerent voice belonged to a man who was just Johnny's height, a few inches shorter than the norm. The man stood aggressively in a doorway that led from a card room. His eyes were narrowed over a beaky nose that reminded Johnny of someone he couldn't place. His mouth was twisted in a perpetual sneer.

Johnny's snap judgment was that the man was mean, but too soft to be physically dangerous. Then the younger Lancer saw the pack of hangers-on who gathered at the first man's heels. Johnny decided, without worrying about it, that a fight might prove to be dangerous after all. However, the disgusted looks some of the bar patrons threw at the newcomers led the Westerner to believe he and Scott wouldn't be fighting alone.

Scott's relaxed manner seemed to confirm that.

He sipped his beer as he studied the man who'd said his name with such venom. Scott carefully put down his mug before he spoke.

"Hello, Desmond," he said, with amusement in his voice, but no warmth. The polite words seemed to sting the man.

"You've got a lot of nerve coming back here!" Desmond snarled.

"But my dues are paid up," Scott said innocently. "Isn't that right, Mr. Wilson" he called to the manager who had appeared in the room at the first hint of trouble.

"Yes, Mr. Lancer. Paid in full, and on time — unlike some I could name," the manager said pointedly.

Desmond flushed as laughter washed around the room. It was well known that his wild business speculations and even wilder gambling wagers often left him short of cash. Desmond had expensive tastes, but his budget was limited, sadly limited from his point of view, though whole families could have lived comfortably on what he bet on one tardy racehorse.

"I thought this was a high class establishment," he snapped at the manager. "I didn't realize you'd let in any sort of misbegotten mongrel." He looked deliberately at Johnny as he said it. Recognizing Johnny's suit as the one he had refused to pay for, he added, "And wearing hand-me-down clothes, at that."

Johnny just looked back blandly. This attitude from Bostonians had ceased to surprise him. In fact, it was refreshing to find someone who said it out loud instead of saying it with his eyes.

The rest of the room didn't find it refreshing, however. A murmur of censure was heard from Scott's friends.

"Mannerless boor," declared one club member in a soft, Virginia accent. "I don't suppose you know what he's been saying about you, Scott?"

Scott gestured for his friend to continue. The Virginian did, taking great pleasure in Desmond's angry countenance.

"He said he and his 'friends' made Boston too hot to hold you. That's why you 'fled' to California."

"Did anyone believe him?" Johnny asked curiously.

"Only his lap dogs," the man said, indicating Desmond's friends. "And as long as his purse strings remain loose, they'd believe him if he said Lee won at Appomatox."

"Now, Gary, were you spreading tales about me?"

Desmond sputtered. "You ruined my engagement to Helen."

"No, you ruined it," he said in icy tones. "You told Helen you were sick. You couldn't go with her to the cotillion, even though it was her sister's coming out and Helen had to be there. It was very important to her, so she asked me to escort her, just an old friend who was going to be out of town for awhile. It would give us a chance to say good-bye. Is it my fault that, as we drove down the street, we saw you staggering along with a … um … lady of questionable virtue on either arm. You know, it wasn't your appetites that offended Helen as much as your appalling lack of taste."

Desmond stalked forward angrily. His followers were less certain, but stayed at his heels.

"There was no reason for you to be on that street. You took that route on purpose!"

"Maybe," Scott said calmly. "Maybe I wanted Helen to know what kind of skunk she was engaged to. But, honestly, Gary, I never expected you to be so obliging."

With a wordless sound, a cross between a snarl and a whimper, Desmond launched himself at Scott; but since he was still halfway across the room, Scott had time to carry his beer to safety before Desmond crashed into the bar. Placing the mug out of harm's way, Scott turned back to his wheezing opponent. He poked his finger at Desmond's soft belly.

"Out of shape, Gary. You know, Mr. Goldberg had to take in the waist of Johnny's suit, or it would have fallen around his ankles," he said amiably.

He ducked the roundhouse swing that was Desmond's reply.

Scott Lancer and Gary Desmond had always rubbed each other the wrong way; but Scott wasn't in the mood to fight; yet he couldn't bring himself to placate Desmond either. Scott ducked and sidestepped as Desmond pressed the battle. His taunts kept the other man swinging while the spectators cheered and catcalled. Johnny sipped his beer and grinned.

"Give it up, Gary," Scott said cheerfully.

Face flushed, teeth bared, Desmond took another swing. Scott dodged backward, into the arms of Desmond's friends.

The grabbed the elder Lancer, holding him tight. Before he could even try to break away, Desmond was on him, pounding, punishing.

Spectators started to their feet, with cries of protest; but Johnny saved his breath. He cannoned into the battling group, carrying everyone to the floor in a tangle of flailing arms, crashing furniture and shattering glasses.

The former gunfighter rolled to his feet, lithe as a cat, and yanked at the first arm that presented itself. One of Desmond's friends, a fair-haired six-footer named Burstyn, flew to his feet and beyond, as Johnny's heave sent him sliding on the beer-slick floor. He got his arms up just in time to prevent his head from crashing into the sturdy bar.

##

The lanky Virginian untangled his long legs from the wreckage of his table and hauled up two of Desmond's supporters by their collars. He vigorously pushed them to the rear where his eager friends pounced upon them.

##

Other friends of Scott waded into the miniature war, freeing Scott from his imprisonment. Scott planted his feet in Desmond's chest and sent him flying into a table full of glassware.

Scott somersaulted to his feet and charged at Desmond who had just stood up. Desmond was knocked back on his seat, shards of glass stabbing through his pants. He roared and rolled away, carrying Scott with him.

Desmond was too soft for his blows to hurt the California rancher, but his treachery had angered Scott beyond words. All thoughts of peace vanished. Scott traded blows with Desmond as the two rolled between table legs and under the feet of the other brawlers.

A near trampling made it clear, even in the heat of battle, that the floor was no place to be. The two sprang to their feet as if by agreement, and were immediately separated by the swirling tide of battle.

Scott found himself facing Burstyn, a much more talented fighter than Desmond. The fair-haired Lancer soon had too much on his hands to look around for his original opponent.

The founder of the fight was propelled clear out of the melee. He stood, shaking with fury, holding onto a table for balance. His eyes searched the battle for a glimpse of Scott. In a blind rage, beyond logic, Desmond groped in his pocket and found the derringer he always carried.

He raised it toward Scott's undefended back.

**To Be Continued**


	7. Be It Ever So Humble

**Chapter 7:** **Be It Ever So Humble**

_**A private club, Boston, Massachusetts, April 1871**_

Gary Desmond, the founder of the fight, was propelled clear out of the melee. He stood, shaking with fury, holding onto a table for balance. His eyes searched the battle for a glimpse of Scott. In a blind rage, beyond logic, Desmond groped in his pocket and found the derringer he always carried.

He raised it toward Scott's undefended back.

* * *

><p>Pushed to the edge of the battle, Johnny worked his way clear. He was grinning, ready to enjoy more combat; but, in the surging mass of strangers, he had lost track of the sides. Rather than accidentally take a swing at one of Scott's friends, he decided it would be better to finish his beer.<p>

He surveyed the battle with satisfaction, as he took a healthy swallow; then he saw Desmond take aim at Scott.

"Scott! Get down!"

In unison with his shout, Johnny threw his beer mug at Desmond. The beer splashed in the Bostonian's face as the heavy mug hit his shoulder.

His shot went wide of Scott, who had fallen to the floor at Johnny's warning, pulling Burstyn with him by his lapels.

The crack of the shot and the smash of the glassware the bullet hit, shocked the room into silence. Combatants froze in place like a game of statues. Only Johnny was in motion, hurtling at the back-shooter with blood in his eye.

One work-muscled arm caught Desmond around his pudgy neck. Johnny threw the Boston man to the ground as if he was bulldogging a steer.

Back-shooting was the foulest crime in Johnny's book and back-shooting his brother put him nearly beyond sanity. Only the sight of Scott coming to kneel beside him, obviously unhurt, prevented Johnny from breaking Desmond's neck.

Instead, in Johnny Madrid's most emotionless, and therefore most chilling, voice, he said, "Drop the derringer or I'll save the hangman a lot of trouble." A bit more pressure on the neck emphasized his point.

Desmond would have begged for mercy, but he could hardly breathe. He whimpered and opened the hand that was still clutching the small weapon.

Scott plucked it out of Desmond's fingers, but Johnny still didn't release his victim. He pinned him helpless, studying him remotely as if he were a new specimen of insect. Scott could sense the quivering tension in his brother.

"You're getting blood on your new suit," Scott said, pointing to a cut on Desmond's neck, which was leaking onto Johnny's knee.

"It's already ruined," Johnny explained. "It wasn't made for sports."

It was true that several rips and stains marred Goldberg's handiwork. Scott judged the tailor might be able to mend it, at the price of a thousand exclamations of horror. Then again, when he heard the cause of the damage, he might agree it was worth it.

"Ah, well," Scott sighed. "It was only a hand-me-down."

Johnny snapped a look at Scott and received only a bland gaze in return. The tension surged out of the younger Lancer.

"Hand-me-down!" he snorted, shoving Desmond away violently and climbing to his feet. "Remind me to tell Mr. Goldberg you said that."

He took the derringer from Scott, unloaded it and tossed it back to Desmond who was being brushed off by his friends.

"Next time you pull a gun on my brother, you'd better remember that we mongrels have sharp teeth."

Scott clapped his arm around Johnny's shoulders and they walked toward the bar to get new drinks. Desmond and his cronies picked up their scattered accessories and crept toward the door.

Scott turned as if he'd forgotten something.

"Oh, Gary," he called. Desmond turned. "See you tonight," Scott said pleasantly.

Desmond might have replied, but he saw the manager bearing down on him to demand payment for damages from the one who started the fight. Since Desmond was strapped for cash, as usual, he jammed his hat on his head and stormed out before the manager could catch him. His cronies hurried to follow. The front door slammed behind them.

The manager grimaced at the door and went to put the damages on Desmond's tab.

* * *

><p>Johnny was trying to puzzle out Scott's parting remark.<p>

"What did you mean, 'see you tonight'? You don't mean, he's …"

"Afraid so," Scott replied. "My cousin, Gary Desmond … Garrett Desmond."

"Madre de Dios!" Johnny said fervently, tossing off the remains of Scott's beer while his brother amiably ordered two more.

"Amen!" Scott agreed.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The Lancer Ranch, California<strong>_

Teresa rushed to greet Murdoch when he rode in from supervising the afternoon chores. Brimming with curiosity, Jelly followed the girl.

"Murdoch! Frank just brought this letter from town. I didn't know what to do with it. It's addressed to Scott, but it's marked urgent."

"I don't know this Michaelson," Murdoch said, examining the return address. "But this is Harlan's address." The Lancer patriarch debated with himself for a moment. "Well, I suppose Scott will forgive us for opening his mail," he decided.

With an expression that grew ever grimmer, Murdoch read Justin's account of the plotting he'd overheard.

"I'm afraid they are planning to murder Mr. Garrett," the letter read. "But I don't know who they are. It could have been any of the servants or the family. You're the only one I can trust, Mr. Scott. Please help." It was signed "Your faithful servant, Justin Michaelson, footman."

"What is it, boss?" Jelly asked in concern.

Without a word, Murdoch handed the letter to Teresa. Jelly read over her shoulder.

"Surely this Michaelson fella will tell Scott and Johnny they're livin' in a house full of killers," Jelly tried to reassure Murdoch, with no success.

"Probably, but we'd better not take any chances. I'm going to send a telegram to Scott," the rancher said, heading back to his horse.

He told the whole story to Jason Jeffers at the telegraph office and together they composed a message that gave the gist of Michaelson's message and told of Murdoch's concern. It ended, "Reply immediately."

Jeffers tapped out the lengthy message and sat back.

"Now we just have to wait for an answer," he said.

* * *

><p><em><strong>The Garrett Mansion, Boston<strong>_

Scott Lancer was choosing a tie when Johnny knocked and came into the room without waiting for a reply. He posed in the doorway.

Scott regarded him with a whistle of appreciation.

Slicked up in suit he brought from California, with his high-heeled cowboy boots buffed to a high gloss and his silver studs and conchos gleaming, Johnny had never looked so Mexican. His cowboy hat hung neatly behind his neck. His blue eyes, the only incongruous note, laughed at Scott from beneath the unruly black locks which contrasted so vividly with the crisp white of his ruffled shirt.

The fair-haired older brother shook his head.

"You're asking for trouble, aren't you?"

Johnny grinned as he bounced onto Scott's bed, but he answered seriously enough, "I figured I was going to get it whether I asked for it or not."

"So you decided to dare my relatives to say anything, is that it?"

"Yup," he said with the complacency of a young man who had never run into any trouble he hadn't been able to handle eventually.

"Besides," he added with devastating honesty, "It's the only good suit I have left."

The butler had sent the suit back to the tailor shop for repairs, but even the able Goldberg couldn't repair the battle damage in two hours.

"Yes, that does make a difference," Scott said with deliberation, though his eyes twinkled.

Scott turned to the mirror to don his tie. Johnny offered his help, but Scott slapped his hand away. Johnny waited in silence until the delicate operation was completed to Scott's satisfaction. He didn't speak until Scott picked up a hairbrush to complete his grooming.

"Scott, how many people are going to be here tonight and who are they?"

Scott saw that, despite his air of confidence, Johnny was nervous about meeting a roomful of possibly hostile Garretts.

"You want a briefing about the history and fortunes of the family Garrett?" he asked playfully.

"Yes, please," Johnny replied meekly.

"Well, where should I start …" Scott pondered briefly. "My great-grandfather Wilfred Garrett came to Boston from England. He was something of a genius at trading. He died even before my mother was born and left a considerable fortune to his four sons — Frederick, Mortimer, Malcolm and Harlan. Grandfather, the youngest of the brothers was 17 or 18 at the time. Now he's the only one left, so that makes him the patriarch of the Garrett family and gives him the right to order these excruciating family dinners."

Johnny nodded to show he was paying attention and made himself comfortable on Scott's bed.

"All the brothers invested their fortunes in a was that not only left them with tidy incomes, but also increased the capital."

Scott looked at Johnny to see if he'd lost him with ten dollar words. But if Johnny didn't understand the vocabulary, he grasped the concepts. He waited attentively for his brother to continue.

"Only grandfather seemed to have inherited his father's knack for trading, but none of the Garretts were exactly poor. Though lucky in finance, grandfather was unlucky in another way. He and his wife had several children, but only one survived infancy."

"Wait!" Johnny said. "I know this part. Scott waited obediently.

"Harlan's only child was Katherine who grew up and ran away with an immigrant Scotsman named Murdoch Lancer. They had only one child …"

"And that was me," Scott finished.

"I already knew where you come in," Johnny complained. "Tell me where Caroline and Gerald and 'Gary' Desmond come in."

"Well, Caroline is a Garrett by birth as well as by marriage."

"Really?"

"Honest. She was born a Garrett. In fact, both her parents were Garretts."

Johnny looked confused. Scott kindly explained that it was common for branches of Boston families to intermarry.

"It keeps the money in the family," he said wryly. "In fact, at one time, Caroline and I were engaged to be married."

Now Johnny was really confused.

"But I thought you were engaged to Julie," he said, referring to a girl who Harlan Garrett had brought to Lancer to try to lure Scott home to Boston.

"That was later, after the war." Scott looked back on fond memories. "We all grew up together — Julie, Caroline, Gerald, Ben Fraser, and me. Caroline and I were unofficially engaged. Ever since we were children, our families had simply assumed we would marry. Caroline's parents were strongly in favor of it. Despite my rebellions against grandfather's standards, I never questioned it and neither did Caroline. We were fond of each other and near the same age, which was much nicer than a lot of the arranged marriages we'd seen. We considered ourselves lucky."

Johnny nodded understanding. Arranged marriages were still the rule in the Mexican border towns where he had grown up. The more money a family had, the earlier the marriages were arranged.

"I always felt sorry for Gerald," Scott continued. "I always knew he loved Caroline, but she never seemed to pay him any attention. She and Ben were very close, though. Funny how things work out …"

He was silent for a long time.

"How did things work out?" Johnny finally prompted.

The smile faded from Scott's face. His eyes went studiously blank.

"You know I was in a prison camp."

It wasn't a question. Scott's wartime experience had reached even to California and caused him to be kidnapped out of the Lancer ranch house. It had been a wild 24 hours before the Lancers had straightened everything out.

"But I never told you and Murdoch that the camp was Paytonville."

Scott couldn't meet Johnny's eyes. There were too many memories of Paytonville, too many sad, shameful, terrifying, nauseating memories. Johnny didn't need telling. The infamous story of Paytonville Prison Camp had spread around the world.

Johnny put a hand on Scott's shoulder.

:I guess we should have figured it out," the younger Lancer said. "We knew the camp commander found out about the escape plans and let you all get out …"

"… And then shot us down like diseased sheep," Scott said bitterly. "With me the Judas goat that led 16 men to their deaths."

"It's not your fault you survived," Johnny said gently.

Scott forced himself to relax. "No, not my fault," he agreed. "Besides shooting escaping prisoners, there were other things the camp commander didn't want to get out, so he didn't allow any letters home and he never reported the names of the prisoners he had. All of us were officially listed as dead. It was more than a year before I escaped. When I got back to Boston, I found out that Caroline had married Gerald. She was almost hysterical. Her mother, too." Years later, Scott was still surprised to remember it. "Caroline kept apologizing for not waiting for me. I told her it was all right, and it was. Breaking the engagement was another kind of freedom and I badly needed freedom just then. I was just glad Gerald wasn't there to hear her and her mother carrying on. It would have been a slap in his face. As it is, he can't help but feel he was second choice. I don't think he blames me, though. He blames himself for not being me."

"I'm still confused," Johnny said, to change the subject away from the painful war years. "How are Caroline and Gerald related and how are they related to you?"

"OK, here goes …" Scott took a deep breath and counted on his fingers. "Caroline is the … great-granddaughter of grandfather's oldest brother, Frederick. Both her parents — they died in a train wreck last year — were Frederick's grandchildren, children of his two sons. You'll meet one of those sons tonight. Marcus Garrett, Caroline's maternal grandfather, is still alive, poor soul."

"What's the matter with Cousin Marcus?" Johnny asked.

"Mad as a hatter," Scott said succinctly. ""Poor man. His family always meant everything to him. Then most of them were killed in a milk fever epidemic — his sons and their families, his brother and most of his family. His daughter was the only one left, his pride and joy. And then she was killed, too. All this in the space of three or four years. It left his mind unbalanced. All he has left is Caroline, who he adores, and a niece Winifred. And Winifred is no price, as you'll see."

Slouched on the bed, furrows of concentration on his face, Johnny asked, "And what's the matter with Cousin Winifred?"

"Winifred Garrett Masters is a holy terror. Her husband drank himself to death — on purpose, I think. Her son joined the merchant marine and never comes home. He sends letters from places like Amsterdam. Her daughter married the son of the British ambassador and now lives in Prussia, since he's assigned to the diplomatic corps there. After her family got as far away from her as possible, Cousin Winnie moved in with Marcus, unasked. She now "takes care of him.' Read that as 'bullies him unmercifully.' She won't like you, but then, she doesn't like anyone. No one ever lives up to her standards."

"OK, I think I have it straight, so far," Johnny said.

He had been getting dizzy trying to sort out the Family Frederick, but when it boiled down to three people — Marcus, his niece Winifred and his granddaughter Caroline — it didn't seem so difficult.

With a return of confidence, he asked, "Who's next."

"Gerald's easy," Scott said. "He is Malcolm's grandson. Malcolm was the third Garrett brother, just a few years older than grandfather. Malcolm married late in life and had one son, Frederick, named after his brother. Cousin Fred will be here tonight. Talk to him about guns and you'll get along fine, I hope. He loves guns and hunting. Fred had two sons, Gerald and Richard. Richard was killed at Gettysburg, but his widow, Mary, will be here. She remarried shortly after Richard's death, too shortly, according to most of the Garretts. It's even worse that her husband, Hans Schoenwald, is the son of German and Dutch immigrants. She is badly treated by most of the family, but she comes to the family gatherings for the sake of her sons Jim and Hal. Frederick dotes on his grandsons."

"Does Schoenwald come, too?"

"No, he's got better sense," Scott said. "He and Mary know his presence would only fan the fire. It's not as though Mary hadn't loved Richard. They married despite his family's disapproval and were a happy couple, as far as I could tell. But when he died, she was left with two small children. She was dependent on the oh, so, kindly charity of Richard's family, who never really liked her and made that clear. Then Hans, a good, kind man, asked her to marry him. I think she made the right choice."

"Do you like her?"

"We get along," Scott said. "I admire her. She's always done the best she could with what she had, never asking for anyone's charity, except to keep her boys from starving. She's a survivor."

Johnny nodded. A talent for survival was a Lancer trait, too. It was a quality that Johnny Madrid could appreciate.

"OK, that makes Fred, his son Gerald, his former daughter-in-law Mary and her two kids," Johnny summed up, earning a nod from Scott. "And now we come to the infamous Cousin Garrett Desmond," Johnny added with an exaggerated grimace of distaste. ""He must be descended from Wilfred's second son, Mortimer, right? What would he be …" Johnny juggled ages and guessed, "…Mortimer's great-grandson?"

"No, grandson," Scott answered. "Though you're right, he's young enough to be his great-grandson. Mortimer had the biggest family, even though he married late. Three of his children survived to adulthood. His two daughters are still alive and will be here tonight. His son, Mortimer Junior, had two sons, Mortimer the third and William, who was killed at Petersburg.

"Mortimer III, who prefers Mort, and his wife Evangeline have four children: Laura, who must be quite a young lady by now; Will and Teddy, two overactive terrors; and little Lisa, who can't be much more than six. They're among my favorite relatives. They are a happy family, except for one thing. Mort's father squandered most of his inheritance, so Mort and Eve are chronically hard up.

"Mort is a school teacher, but doesn't make very much. He worries about his kids. Being a Garrett, he wants to provide a lavish dowry for Laura and he wants to send his boys to Harvard. The tight money doesn't seem to worry the kids much. Laura says she wouldn't have any man who wanted her for her money, anyway. And Will says he'll get into Harvard on his own, by earning a scholarship. He probably will, too. He studies hard enough."

Usually Johnny was interested in children, but at the moment his mind was on less pleasant topics.

"I take it Desmond's the son of one of the first Mortimer's daughters," Johnny calculated.

"Uh huh, Mort the first had two daughters, Annabell and Maybell — not Mabel, mind you, May-bell. Don't forget it, not that she'd let you. Annabell never married. Her childhood sweetheart died of consumption and she stayed faithful to his memory. Her sister Maybell married Arthur Desmond. They had five daughters, all married now and moved away, before they finally had a son. His whole family spoiled Gary rotten. His mother buys him out of trouble, just as she bought him out of the army. Yet, she still thinks he's absolutely perfect. It's just that everyone is jealous of him. You know the sort of thing."

Johnny grimaced in agreement.

"If Gary has told his mother about the fight — and I'll bet he didn't have any choice, as torn up as he and his suit were — then Maybell will snub you all night. Probably the nicest thing that could happen to you," Scott told his brother. "If Annabell hasn't heard the story, tell her. She'll love it. It is her public opinion that Gary received too few spankings when he was growing up and anyone who makes up for that deficit now is only doing the world a favor."

Johnny laughed aloud.

"I think I like her already," the younger Lancer said.

"You will. And she'll like you. She hates phonies. That's why, in all the years I've known her, I have never seen her and her sister agree on anything," Scott said.

"OK, I think I've got it straight," Johnny said. "Two sisters, Annabell and May-bell; Maybell's son, Gary the Spoiled; and their nephew Mort with family."

"And Maybell's husband, Arthur," Scott added.

A knock at the door interrupted any further conversation.

"Are you ready sir?" Hodges the butler asked, as he poked his head in the door. "The guests have all arrived. Dinner will be ready in half an hour, and your grandfather would like to see you first."

"Is the doctor still with him?"

"No, sir. He went down a minute ago, to say good-bye to Miss Caroline and Mr. Gerald."

Scott picked up his jacket and moved toward the door. When Johnny didn't follow, Scott turned.

"Are you coming, or do you want to go down and introduce yourself to the family?" he said grinning.

Johnny gave an exaggerated shudder.

"Better the devil I know, that the ones I don't," he decided. He followed Scott to Harlan's room.

* * *

><p>Pedaling over the cobblestones in the red light of sunset, the Western Union messenger didn't have to wonder why his bicycle was called a boneshaker. Fortunately he only had one message to deliver before he could sign off shift and go home to dinner.<p>

He bounced through the quiet streets and dismounted at the steps of the Garrett house. As he reached for the door chime, the door opened and a man stepped out.

"Sir!" said the boy smartly. "Telegram for Mr. Scott Lancer."

"I'll take it," said the man who wasn't Scott. He signed Scott's name to the receipt book and tipped the boy a nickel to the messenger's disgust, before he tore open the telegram. He read the ominous message from Murdoch without a blink."

"Any reply, sir?"

"No. No reply."

The man stood on the stoop, watching the boy ride away. He was glad he'd seen the messenger coming in time to intercept the telegram.

He crumpled the telegram and stuffed it into his pocket.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Morro Coyo, California<strong>_

Murdoch Lancer waited for an answer to his telegram until the sun began to set in California. Finally he asked Jason Jeffers to send a query.

"They say Scott signed for the telegram, Murdoch, but there was no reply," the telegrapher told him.

"No reply!" Murdoch exclaimed. His message had specifically asked for a reply. "Something's wrong, Jason, very wrong. Scott wouldn't do that."

Murdoch paced worriedly.

"I don't know what to do. I'm afraid my boys are in trouble, and they don't even know it."

"There's an eastbound train going through the Crossing about sunup," Jeffers suggested.

"I think you're right," Murdoch said.

* * *

><p><em>AN: Sorry, I haven't figured out how to make a genealogy chart that works in ff dot net. Hope you can keep the family members straight. This is a mystery. Gotta have suspects._


	8. There's No Place Like Home

**Chapter 8: There's No Place Like Home**

_**The Garrett mansion, Boston**_

Scott hovered solicitously at his grandfather's elbow as the Lancers and Harlan walked slowly down the staircase.

The descent was a long process with Harlan pausing to rest every other step. He complained that he'd had to promise this to Fraser before the doctor would give him permission to get up, but he was secretly glad he had that excuse. His heart pounded with each step and his breath came in short gasps.

Harlan was frightened to find himself so weak; but the distress that Scott couldn't hide pained the old man even more. Finally Harlan insisted that Scott go ahead to greet their guests who were gathered in the parlor.

"Your brother will look after me," he asserted.

Recognizing Harlan's motives, Johnny backed Garrett up; but Scott was too worried to be reasonable.

When it looked as if he would refuse outright, Harlan snapped in stern tones, "Mind your manners, boy. Don't argue with your grandfather."

He sounded so much like the old, energetic Harlan that Scott had to smile and give in. But as he left, he gave Johnny a pleading look. The dark-haired Lancer son nodded in reassurance.

"Honestly," Harlan moaned, loud enough for his departing grandson to hear. "You'd think I was climbing Mt. Everest."

But he was glad Scott couldn't see that his hand on the banister was trembling with weakness. He hoped Johnny's sharp eyes wouldn't see it either.

"Poor Scotty," he said, to distract Johnny's attention. "It hurts me to see him so upset."

"I think it's my fault," Johnny said with regret.

Harlan looked at him in surprise. It was the last thing he expected to hear the Lancer boy say.

"I keep putting my foot in it, Harlan," Johnny explained. "I keep saying things, asking questions, that bring back bad memories."

Harlan dismissed the idea with a wave of his free hand.

"Memories aren't your fault, Johnny. Good or bad, memories are a part of coming home," he said.

A wave of dizziness hit him and he leaned heavily on the banister. He couldn't hear Johnny's voice over the pounding in his ears, but he felt the ex-gunfighter's gentle hands coaxing him to a seat on the stairs.

When his heart eased its frenzied beating, he looked at Johnny's worried face and continued as if he hadn't been interrupted, "If Scotty seems to overreact to your questions, it's only because he's upset about my imminent death."

For all the emotion he showed, Harlan might as well have been talking about balancing his account books. He noticed Johnny's surprised expression, smiled gently and patted the young man's knee.

"You're still young. You don't understand. I've been ready for death since my poor Emily passed away; but I've fought it viciously, first for the sake of Katherine, then for Scotty. Now he is a grown man with a life of his own, however hard that was for me to accept. Now I can make my peace and go with a clear conscience. My only regret would have been if my selfish actions of the past had pushed Scotty away from me."

"It would have had to be some push," Johnny said. "Scott is awfully loyal."

"A Lancer trait, I've noticed," Harlan replied, with an approving look that caught Johnny off guard. "I've had time to think since I returned from California," Harlan continued in a faintly apologetic tone. "I realized that I didn't have to have Scotty with me. As long as I have his love, it doesn't matter how far away he is." He paused and then went on in a quiet voice. "And to think I almost threw away his regard, just to bring him back to Boston."

He stared at the foot of the stairs, but he didn't see them.

Johnny softly broke the silence.

"Harlan, you know how I grew up — wild, hard and alone. Sometimes when Scott talks about his childhood, I envy him. Not for the big house, the money or the fancy schools. I envy him for having you."

Harlan looked at the sincerity in Johnny's honest face and was suddenly glad, as he'd never been before, that his daughter had met Murdoch Lancer.

"Johnny, I want you to tell Murdoch something for me. Tell him, I'm glad Scotty won't be alone when I'm gone. I'm glad he has you and Murdoch to care for him."

"I'll tell him," Johnny promised.

He sealed the deal with a warm handshake, which he then used to pull Harlan to his feet. With Johnny supporting the old man around the waist, the pair finished off the staircase in what amounted to a rush and made for the nearest chairs.

* * *

><p>When Johnny ushered Harlan to his overstuffed chair and placed a hassock under his feet, Scott was busy handing around sherry and canapés. It was the footman's usual job, but Harlan hadn't hired anyone to take the place of the deceased Michaelson. Scott had claimed the host's prerogative of serving his guests and chased a harried Hodges back to his usual chores.<p>

Before Scott could disengage himself and join his grandfather and brother, Caroline swept over, took Johnny by the arm as if he was an old friend, and began making introductions.

If she was somewhat over effusive, at least she was more polite than her husband. He clutched a glass of sherry and a canapé to avoid shaking hands and only grunted in reply to Johnny's greeting. Gerald hardly even looked at the younger Lancer. Instead, he kept his sour gaze fixed on Scott's activities.

Johnny hardly had time to shrug, before Caroline dragged him to the first couple. Forty-year-old Mort Garrett had the lined face and gray-streaked hair you might expect from an underpaid teacher with four children to provide for. His small, dark-haired wife was careworn but still pretty. She looked fragile, but that was deceptive. When she met Johnny's eyes, he saw a serene strength that laughed at obstacles.

It was obvious neither of them knew what to make of Johnny, who hardly seemed to match his fearsome reputation. But they were both too polite to say so. They greeted him pleasantly, which was more than the next Garret did.

A gawky scarecrow of a man about Murdoch's age examined Johnny as if he were a mildly interesting rodent, not as revolting as a sewer rat, perhaps, but not up to the standard of a household pet, either.

Frederick shook hands with Johnny firmly and muttered a conventional greeting, but only because it was the proper thing to do.

The woman next to him was even worse. Though Winifred was of a different generation of Garretts, she was near to Frederick in age. Her thin features matched his, but the beaky Garrett nose looked out of place on her smaller face. It and the fierce look in her eyes made her look like a hunting hawk, Johnny thought. He considered her long, stringy neck. Or maybe a buzzard was more appropriate.

She didn't say a word to the Westerner. She touched his hand with the tips of her fingers, then snapped her hand away.

The dark-haired young woman next to her smiled weakly and squeezed Johnny's hand with reassurance.

While Caroline was trying to make the next man, her grandfather Marcus, understand who Johnny was, the younger Lancer stole the opportunity to talk to Mary.

"I'm pleased to meet you, Mrs. Schoenwald," he said.

Fred must have heard, because he threw a cold glare at the young pair. Mary returned an equally frigid glance, then returned much a warmer regard to Johnny.

"You'd better just call me Mary. Everyone here politely ignores the fact that I'm no longer a Garrett," she said.

Seeing she smarted under the weight of unspoken criticism, the independent-minded Lancer asked why she came to the dinners at all.

Her frozen features thawed.

"Because of the boys. They love their grandfather and I have to admit he loves them, too."

"He looks too cold to care much," Johnny said frankly, but too softly for anyone else's ears.

"The problem is, he cares too much," Mary contradicted, as if she had given the matter a lot of thought. "He's wonderful with the boys. I even thought he was getting to like me, before I remarried. The trouble is, he's so honest himself. My marriage seems to him to be disloyal to Richard."

"He doesn't seem to like me much, either," Johnny commented.

"He hasn't made his mind up about you, yet. He's always slow to judge. Once he decides, though, it's almost impossible to get him to change his mind."

She sighed for her own difficult position. Johnny patted her shoulder and would have offered words of comfort, but Marcus Garrett chose that moment to suddenly recognize Johnny's presence.

He had been delaying Caroline with a monologue of complaints and criticisms. He interrupted himself to demand, "Who's this?"

"Who are you?" it became, when he turned to Johnny directly. "You don't look like a Garrett."

"I'm not," Johnny said shortly.

"Then what are you doing here?" Marcus was outraged that a stranger had infiltrated the sanctity of a Garrett family gathering.

The son of Harlan's oldest brother, he was two year's younger than Scott's grandfather, but looked much older. His hair and eyes were wild. Despite Caroline's attempts to calm him down, he began a rambling tirade about the greatness of the distinguished Garrett family and the perfidy of the lower orders who tried to weasel their way into Garrett good graces and steal the family fortunes.

Mary flushed, but Marcus' tirade didn't seem to be aimed at her, or anyone in particular.

Johnny found the idea of Garrets being next to godliness rather amusing, and listened politely to the hoarse voice. But the rest of the people in the room, found the repetitive verbal assault either embarrassing or, since it was so familiar, boring.

"Marcus!" Harlan didn't have to raise his voice, because all conversation had ceased. It still held a snap of command that stopped Marcus in mid-word. The old man turned vague, surprised eyes in the patriarch's direction.

"Johnny is my grandson's brother," Harlan explained firmly. "You might say he's a Garrett-in-law."

"Why didn't someone say so?" Marcus complained, as if he would have allowed anyone to get a word in edgewise. Caroline sighed with fond exasperation.

"I knew he didn't look like a Garrett," Harlan's nephew muttered to himself. Then he appeared to lose interest and sank into silent contemplation, for which they were all grateful.

Mary met Johnny's eyes, then raised hers toward heaven. Johnny grimaced back, as Caroline tugged him over to the next group, which was frankly hostile.

The Desmonds chatted together, pointedly ignoring Johnny. However, they didn't care to snub Caroline also, so they were forced to listen to her introductions. Their faces expressed impatient politeness as they heard her out. Their gazes had turned thoroughly venomous by the time they transferred to Johnny. In unison, the sour-faced trio, Garrett, Arthur and Maybell Desmond, looked Johnny up and down.

Arthur Desmond had a round face, with a pug nose and eyes set too close together. Maybell Garrett Desmond had a grim, lantern jaw and the Garrett nose. Her son combined his father's round face and tiny eyes with his mother's prominent nose. All three looked equally unattractive with their well-practiced sneers in place.

Johnny returned their unfriendly stares with a broad, amiable grin. He greeted the parents politely, then slapped Gary on the shoulder, which he hoped was still sore from his armlock. Gary winced.

Johnny apologized profusely, loud enough to carry to everyone in the room.

"Say, you're not still sore from that little scuffle this afternoon, are you? Why I'd think an experienced saloon brawler like yourself could throw off the effects of a little scrap like that in no time."

Gary gaped in fury. His mother rounded on him.

"Garrett! What is this awful person talking about? Have you been fighting again? Is that where you got that bruise on your jaw? You told me you slipped in the bathtub!"

She appealed to her husband, who merely agreed with her as usual. Gary and Caroline tried to pacify her, but Maybell scolded on.

Johnny casually scanned the room as he drifted away from the argument.

He saw with satisfaction that Scott and Harlan, who had been told the whole story, were fighting to hide their grins. Harlan was slightly more successful.

Marcus looked around in befuddlement, wondering where all the noise was coming from, while Winifred watched the quarrel with eager disapproval.

Gerald, Fred and Mary had started a loud conversation about breeds of dogs to cover their embarrassment as well as the sound of dissension.

But darned if Cousin Fred isn't trying to hide a smile, too," Johnny thought, as he turned to the only adult he hadn't met yet.

Annabell Garrett ignored her sister's voice with the ease of long practice. She smiled warmly at Johnny, greeting him with both hands held out affectionately.

"Johnny! It's so good to finally meet you. I feel I already know you from Scott's letters."

"It's nice to see a friendly face," Johnny said ruefully.

"Don't mind Maybell," Annabell said with a winsome smile that belonged to a girl decades younger than her white hair implied. "She's never happy unless she's tearing up someone, and you happen to be handy. So, are you enjoying your trip to Boston?"

Johnny didn't know what to answer. He involuntarily looked toward Scott, who was hovering around his grandfather. Scott was doing a great impersonation of a man having a good time, but the muscle twitches at the hinge of his jaw gave his true feelings away to those who knew him well, which included Johnny and Annabell.

She patted Johnny's hand gently.

"I'm sorry. I should have considered the unhappy circumstances. It's sad about Harlan, of course. He was taken ill so suddenly. But to my mind, it's even sadder seeing Scott like this again."

Johnny regarded her with surprise. Before he could ask what she meant by "again," Caroline swept him away to the final stop on his tour of the Family Garrett.

It may have been kindness that led Caroline to leave the Garrett children for last. But since she didn't know Johnny's affinity for kids, it was more likely she just wanted to get him as far from the rest of the family as possible. Not a bad idea, as far as Johnny was concerned. Though exactly who Caroline was trying to protect was up for debate.

The six Garrett kids were clustered together on hassocks and chairs near the unlit fireplace.

Lively, unashamed curiosity had kept their eyes on Johnny throughout his circuit of the room. What scandalized the parents, thrilled the children.

As Johnny and Caroline approached, the four boys, who ranged from eight to thirteen, scrambled to their feet, agog at meeting someone from the wild west. They shook hands eagerly, vying unobtrusively over who got to go first. They settled their squabble amiably by giving precedence to the oldest; so Johnny met Mort's son Will, then Mary's two boys Jim and Hal, and finally Mort's youngest son, Ted, who was disgusted at being last, since his birthday was only two weeks after Hal's.

Etiquette said that Johnny should have greeted the girls first, but until he got the tide of boys settled, he couldn't even reach Laura and Lisa. The sisters remained demurely seated, tough it took a yank on Lisa's sleeve to keep the energetic six-year-old from joining her brothers.

Laura was a fine-featured self-possessed young lady of fifteen, whose bright eyes exhibited a lively curiosity about the world around her. When Johnny stooped to kiss her hand as if she was a dowager empress, he made a friend for life. But when he did the same for Lisa, the wide-eyed, round-faced child turned suddenly shy and fled behind her sister's skirts, where she could peek out like a curious squirrel.

"Are you really a cowboy?" Hal asked breathlessly.

"And a gunfighter?" Ted chimed in.

Johnny laughed at their eagerness.

"Well, cowboy is a Texas term. In California and Mexico, we say vaquero; but, yes, I'm a cattle rancher by trade. The gunfighting, well, that was in a past that I'm not awful proud of."

"It sounds terribly dangerous," Laura said. "You must be an expert marksman."

"How many notches do you have on your gun?" Jim asked.

The boys waited for his reply, hanging on Johnny's every word. It made him uncomfortable. It was such hero worship that had led him to believe that a fast gun was the path to glory — a path which instead had led eventually and inevitably to a firing squad in the Mexican desert. Only divine intervention, in the form of a Pinkerton man hired by Murdoch, had spared his life and given him a chance to discover what life is really about.

"I never notched my gun, Jim," Johnny answered seriously. "Killing a man isn't something to be proud of. Would you want the man who killed your father to brag on it?"

Taken aback, Jim could only stammer out a negative.

"I don't suppose the Reb who killed him is ashamed of it. It's kill or be killed in a war. Some would say I've killed more than my share, but I can still sleep at night, because I always followed my own rules and I never shot anyone in the back. But following the rules don't make killing right. Each killing kills a little bit out the killer's soul, too. There's a poem I heard that said it best, "Each man's death diminishes me, So send not to know for whom the bell tolls. It tolls for thee."

"If you feel that way, why did you become a gunfighter," Will asked seriously.

"I didn't feel that way then," Johnny answered. "I grew up thinking being good with a gun would make me important. And it did, for a while. It also almost got me killed before my 21st birthday," Johnny said lightly, trying to ease the mood, since he'd made his point.

Laura sensed his goal and tried to help.

"What about Cousin Scott?" she asked. "Is he any good with a gun?" The boys laughed. They felt no hero worship for the distant cousin they had known as long as they could remember; but they liked Scott. They were interested in Johnny's reply, but a voice interrupted before they could hear it.

"Jim, Hal, come over here and see your old grandfather," Frederick ordered affectionately.

"But grandfather!" they protested.

"Don't argue," their mother said, with an apologetic look at Johnny.

Jim looked mulish and Hal unhappy, but they went obediently. Johnny and Frederick shared a heavy stare. Laura had to repeat her question before Johnny answered.

"How do you mean 'good'?" Johnny asked. "If you mean accurate, well … he hits what he aims at. That's as accurate as anyone needs to be."

"Is he as good as you?" Will teased.

"We never held a shooting match," Johnny laughed. "I'd have to guess I'm better with a pistol, but Scott might be able to outshoot me with a carbine. He's a demon with a rifle."

"Is he as fast as you?" Ted asked seriously.

"No," Johnny said slowly. "No, I guess that's the big difference between Scott and me."

"Your speed?" Laura asked.

"No our brains," Johnny answered. The children giggled, but Johnny insisted he wasn't joking. "See, Scott isn't fast because he thinks too much. He spent his childhood learning how to think. I spent mine learning how to react without thinking. When Scott hears a shot, he has to think about grabbing a gun. I don't. I just grab it automatically. It's saved my life a few times. It's also caused me some embarrassment.

"Some boys played a joke on a little girl one time. They planted one of those pop out, springy 'snakes' in her lunch pail. Well, she screamed and I blasted the blazes out of that toy before my brain had time to tell my gun hand it wasn't dangerous. Scott would have recognized it as a practical joke before he fired.

"Now I'm kinda trapped by my reflexes. I learned how not to think too well. When Scott came to California, he didn't know anything about bulldogging or roping cattle. Why should he?"

"It must have been funny watching him learn," Ted giggled.

"It was," Johnny admitted, with a small smile of remembrance for days of muddy faces and torn pants. "But the point is, he learned. The new hands don't know there was ever anything to laugh at. And the old hands, they brag about him. But me," Johnny sighed ruefully. "I have to count on my fingers to add up the ranch books. I just never learned how to think."

"You don't seem stupid to me," Laura said.

"He's not," Scott said, as he came up with a drink in his hand. "Don't let him try to tell you he is, Laura."

"I won't, Scott," she promised.

"Here, brother," Scott said, handing Johnny the glass.

Johnny sniffed the clear liquid with caution that turned to surprised pleasure. He sipped. "It's tequila!" he sipped again. "And good tequila, too. Where'd you get it?"

"My superior education enabled me to deduce a way to find this rare Mexican nectar," Scott said with a straight face.

Laura and Will laughed.

"I'll bet I know how you got it, Cousin Scott," Laura cried.

Scott smiled at her. "You tell the man," he suggested.

"You asked Hodges to find it, didn't you?"

"The lady from Boston wins the prize," Scott said. To his brother, he added, "If it exists, Hodges knows where to find it."

"Remember the time he got strawberries for my birthday," the girl said. "It's in January," she explained to Johnny.

"That's what made me think to ask him," Scott said. "Can I get you something?" he asked the girl, when he saw her glass was empty. "More sarsaparilla? Or perhaps some sherry this time?"

Laura was pleased by the compliment, but she knew her mother would disapprove. She wouldn't have had time to drink either offering. As she declined with thanks, Hodges entered to announce dinner.

**To Be Continued (duh)**


	9. Dinner at Home

**Chapter 9: Dinner at Home**

_**The Garrett mansion, Boston**_

Under Hodges strict supervision, the staff had outdone themselves to honor the return of Scott and the visit of his brother.

The maplewood table was as wide as a man is tall, long enough and polished well enough to skate on. Of course, you couldn't see the high gloss, covered as it was by acres of snowy Irish linen decorated with delicate embroidery. Crystal goblets sparkled under a chandelier of equally crystalline brilliance. The silver, Mrs. Hodges pride and joy, gleamed with the love of a thousand polishings.

Johnny admired the effort it took to get the room spotless and shining, but what he liked best were the vases filled with bright spring flowers, yellow daffodils, white carnations, purple foxglove, topped by red and pink roses. They added their scent to those coming from the kitchen, creating a perfume finer than any made in France.

Even the vague Marcus sniffed appreciatively.

Harlan occupied the master's seat at the head of the table, with Scott at his left and Johnny at his right. Annabell was seated next to the Westerner with polite Mort and his wife as an extra buffer next to her.

Caroline and her silent husband were next to Scott.

As usual the children were clustered at the foot of the table, where Harlan could get a clear shot with a stern look if the antics grew too boisterous. It wasn't uncommon for the querulous Marcus to be stuck down there as well.

The rest of the family usually alternated places at the table. Frederick, Winifred and the Desmonds knew why they had been relegated to the foot of the table on this occasion. It didn't bother Frederick, but the others were fuming at the "insult."

Caroline laughed and chatted with Scott at her right. She tried to draw her glum husband into the conversation, but Gerald didn't seem interested in remembering when. He just grunted and concentrated on the first course.

While Scott traded reminiscences with Caroline and Harlan, Johnny had a chance to question Annabell about Scott.

"What did you mean about being sorry to see Scott like this again?"

Annabell kept her voice low. "I hate to see him so tense," she said.

"You must know Scott pretty well. Most people wouldn't realize he was upset."

"I know. He hides his feelings because he doesn't want to burden others with his problems; but when something really bothers him, it rubs his nerves raw. He hides the big thing, but overreacts to the little things," the white-haired woman said. "I helped nurse him after he escaped from the prison camp. He was wounded and desperately ill for months. Even when his body healed, his nerves didn't. He could talk about the camp without emotion, but a piece of burned toast would drive him into a frenzy. And then he would be in tears because he was sorry he yelled."

"He hasn't been that bad," Johnny protested.

"No, Paytonville was a special case. But I can see the news about Harlan has hit him hard. Maybe too hard."

Johnny looked a question.

"Death is easier on us old folks," she said. "I've seen so many loved ones die — my parents, my fiancé. Death only saddens me now. It's lost the power to shock."

"It will be especially hard on Scott because he and his grandfather are so close," Johnny said.

"And because he may be blaming himself for running off to California and leaving Harlan alone," Annabell added. "I don't think it's good for him to repress his feelings like this. Get him to talk to you, Johnny. Maybe it will help."

Johnny promised he would.

"What are you two talking about with your heads so close together?" Caroline asked archly.

"I was telling Johnny what naughty children you were," Annabell lied glibly. She launched into a funny story that proved her point.

The whole table joined the laughter, though Gerald's was somewhat bilious.

"Enough about the distant past, I want to hear about the wickedness you boys were up to this afternoon," Caroline said with a devilish glint in her eye.

Johnny hesitated, but Annabell looked at him encouragingly and Harlan muttered, "Go ahead, boy, but make it funny."

Johnny did. He thought to be kind, but the furious, forbidding look on Gary's face was too much to take. None of the Desmonds were laughing when Johnny finished, but everyone else was. Except Winifred, of course. The tale of drunken rowdiness only caused her to purse her lips in disgust.

"Johnny, tell the story about the lonely widow in Abilene," Scott urged.

Johnny obliged with the funniest story of Johnny Madrid's hectic life. It was about how, with a pinto pony, an unloaded Winchester and a freshly baked cherry pie, he'd brought a husband-to-be to justice — the justice of the peace, that is.

Even Arthur Desmond cracked a smile at that one; but Johnny's best behavior couldn't crack the toughest nuts.

He shrugged to himself and vowed that he wouldn't let them bother him. In fact, he realized, if he looked at it as a game, it might fun to see how they tried to skunk him. The thought made him feel better.

Normally the dinner conversation evolved into private conversations among neighbors. This time it degenerated into a tug-o-war with the far end of the table doing most of the tugging, trying to pull Johnny into an error. Johnny fended them off, with some help from the sidelines. Harlan could have stopped it, but he believed in letting people fight their own battles, and didn't expect his relatives to do much damage to the resilient Californian.

* * *

><p>Johnny's story about the pinto pony got Frederick interested in the Lancers opinion on guns and horses. Johnny disposed of the gun question quickly, before the "enemy" could ask him how many men he'd killed. He and Scott were waxing lyrical in defense of the quarter horse as opposed to Fred's thoroughbreds.<p>

"Of course, a thoroughbred is fast, but speed isn't so important on the range," Scott said. "Stamina and agility are the prime factors. A cow pony can travel through country that would starve a thoroughbred. A good quarter horse can stop on a dime and reverse direction at full gallop in less that its own body length. Believe me, that sort of agility is of paramount importance when you're working unruly cattle."

As Fred considered the point, Maybell found a chance to break in.

"Speaking of horses, Frederick, didn't I see a new painting in your home the other day?" she addressed her first cousin in sugary tones.

Fred's eyes lit up. Next to guns and horses, he loved his collection of paintings, which featured horses and hunting scenes. The George Stubbs painting of a mare and foal at play was his most recent acquisition, sent from England by his European agent. It was his current pride and joy and he was delighted to talk about it.

Maybell skillfully turned the conversation in the direction of art in general, rightly assuming that Johnny would know next to nothing about the subject.

Not content with merely leaving Johnny out of the , she, Winnie and Gary kept dragging him in, asking him his opinions of the painters.

Johnny kept his mouth as full as possible of the excellent food, smiled his most engaging grin and kept his answers short.

"No ma'am, never heard of him." "You don't say?" "If he's as good as that, I'd sure like to see one of his paintings some day."

Winnie's waspish comments about the sad state of education in the West stung a bit. His lack of learning was one of the things he really regretted missing in his childhood. Still, Johnny shook off Winnie's barbed comments like a horse shakes off flies. He didn't think twice about them.

However, he could see that his brother was getting hot as the comments got nastier. Johnny caught his eye and shook his head.

Scott subsided with a grimace that suddenly turned into an impish grin.

Cutting across Winnie's strident description of a painting, Scott said, "Do you think that Gainsborough landscape is an allegory about man's never-ending struggle for perfection?"

It was complete tommyrot, of course. Gainsborough painted portraits primarily, plus a few landscapes. He never painted allegories, which belonged to an earlier age.

His comment stopped Winnie cold, however. She had never studied art. She had never studied anything, except other people's business.

Scott continued without giving her a chance to break in.

"I've heard that said, but personally I don't believe it. Gainsborough never painted an allegory in his life."

Scott continued to expound on allegories, ignoring the puzzled looks of his brother and grandfather, as he ignored the efforts of the Desmonds to hijack the conversation. Scott didn't let anyone get a word in, until Johnny's face lit in understanding.

"Then an allegory is like one of those figures of speech, except in paintings, right?" Johnny said.

"Exactly."

Johnny and Scott renewed their exuberant discussion of figures of speech, concentrating on the book Johnny had been reading on the train.

Johnny liked the book because, among the stories, were two by a couple of recent writers named Hart and Twain who wrote about people the former gunfighter could relate to.

They had the added advantage of being new stories, which had been much talked about, but which Maybell and Winifred hadn't read. Several of the others at the table had, including Laura who was delighted to be able to join the adult's conversation.

When Maybell caught the gist of the conversation, however, she snorted.

"I don't know what kind of things they're teaching you in those schools today," she scolded Laura.

Laura's schoolteacher father bridled, but his wife's hand on his arm held him silent.

"Imagine letting a girl your age read trash like that, all about ruffians, unwashed, uneducated. The schools my Garrett went to would never …"

"I always found the value of a formal education to be vastly overrated. Don't you agree, Uncle Harlan?" Frederick interrupted.

"I wouldn't make such a sweeping generalization, myself," Harlan replied seriously, too seriously. "Schools do have their place and I won't say I was ashamed to send Scotty to Harvard, but your grandfather would have agreed with you."

"Oh! That's right," Annabell said in lavish surprise. "Grandfather didn't believe in higher education. Didn't he apprentice his sons in the business as soon as they learned the basics of reading and writing?"

"That's right. I only attended school up to the sixth grade, and your uncle Malcolm was the same."

Maybell's face turned the color of dirty milk, as she remembered the family history she had chosen to conveniently forget. One did not lightly offend the family patriarch. Harlan could be as ruthless in family matters as he was in business. Besides, he was the richest Garrett relative and his only direct heir was living in the wild, dangerous West where many a man died young. Maybell certainly didn't want to cut her ties with Harlan.

"I remember," Annabell continued sweetly, enjoying her sister's discomfiture. "And grandfather kept father and Uncle Fred out of school entirely, didn't he?"

"Yes, so you see Johnny and I have more in common than one might think. Don't we boy?" Harlan said.

Johnny agreed as Maybell hastened to mend her fences.

"I hope you don't think I was implying any insult to yourself or," she added reluctantly. "Or to your grandson's brother. Believe me, it was the farthest thing from my mind …"

She continued in the same unctuous line. Harlan, Frederick and Annabell enjoyed watching her squirm, but her hypocrisy made Scott feel sick.

"Excuse me, sir," he said abruptly, throwing his napkin on the table. "I need some air."

With a pointed glance at the Desmonds, he stalked out of the dining room.

A jerk of Harlan's head, sent Johnny after his brother.

Scott hadn't gone far, just far enough to cool his aching forehead against a tall marble statue.

Johnny spoke his name softly.

Without turning around, the elder Lancer said bitterly, "Sometimes she makes me so sick."

The venom in his brother's normally controlled voice frightened Johnny into defending Maybell.

"She's just a little narrow-minded. Nothing I haven't run into before," Johnny said.

Scott lashed out.

"Just narrow-minded! How can you defend her! Didn't you hear? Weren't you listening to what she called you?"

Inside the dining room, the family concentrated on finishing coffee and pretending they couldn't hear the angry sounds from outside. Maybell was still chastened by her bout with Harlan, but her son was fiercely glad to hear sounds of discord from the brothers. He was only sorry he couldn't make out the words.

Caroline set her cup down . Her trembling hand caused it to rattle in the saucer. The sound was loud in the silent dining room.

Those nearest looked in surprise. Her husband looked away, just as swiftly, however. His eyes were filled with wounded pride.

Caroline cleared her throat.

"Why don't we adjourn to the front room," she said. Emotion made her voice husky.

"Good idea," Harlan said briskly. He led the parade away from the table, away from the veranda and the hot words coming from beyond the French doors.

* * *

><p>Johnny bowed his head against the storm. Knowing Scott's anger wasn't meant for him, he was content to let his brother blow off steam.<p>

"She's a poisonous snake and she's brought up Gary just like her. They make me so mad I'd like to scream!"

"But why are you screaming at me?" Johnny raised his voice in a heatless shout.

Scott stopped in mid-word, blinking as if he had just awakened. Sense returned in a rush. He collapsed onto a bench and buried his face in his hands.

"I'm sorry, Johnny. I don't know why I'm taking this out on you."

His words came with great effort.

"Because that's what brothers are for," Johnny said matter-of-factly.

His face gray with emotional exhaustion, Scott attempted a rather ghastly smile. "I don't even know why I'm so upset. Maybell wasn't any worse than usual."

Johnny just looked at Scott, waiting. He knew Scott did know what was really bothering him, but Johnny wouldn't push his brother into talking about it. He could only provide a willing ear.

"I can't imagine grandfather dying," Scott said finally. His voice was choked. "All my life he's been here. When I skinned me knee and ran in crying, there he was. When I fell out of a tree and knocked myself silly, he was the first person I saw when I woke up. When I came home from the war, all broken up inside and not really sure who I was any more, he was here. And because he was just the same, he was like a landmark, which helped me find myself again. He made me whole enough I could even leave him again. But all the time, in all my travels, even at Lancer, I knew he was here, just the same as always. When he dies, it will be like … like the Rock of Gibraltar crumbled into the water. God, Johnny, I've never been so scared in my life." Scott's voice was empty of everything but pain. "What will I do without him?"

His eyes held the hopeless look of a man with an empty canteen who topped a rise only to see barren desert all around.

"Scott."

The elder brother wrenched his attention back from his contemplation of desolation. He focused on his brother.

Johnny stood ill at ease, obviously searching for a way to express his feelings.

A stirring of affection eased the emptiness in Scott. He thought it was strange. Johnny was frighteningly competent in so many ways, but when it came to matters of emotion, he could be very much the little brother.

Johnny realized Scott was still waiting for him to say something. The younger Lancer grinned apologetically, appealing in his schoolboyish awkwardness.

"I'm no good at this," he said, fidgeting. His grin widened slightly. "I try to think what Murdoch would say," he confessed. "But all I can think of is, no matter what happens, Scott. No matter what you decide to do. You won't have to do it alone. Just remember that, OK?"

Scott didn't, couldn't, reply. Johnny saw his eyes brim with tears, before Scott turned away.

"Damn, I've done it again," Johnny swore at himself silently.

Scott stared up at the stars for a long time. Johnny shuffled uncertainly behind him, wondering why he'd come when all he did was add to his brother's misery. He finally decided to leave Scott alone and was sneaking off, when Scott stopped him with a word.

"I'm sorry, Scott," Johnny burst out. "I've done nothing but make things worse since I cam. I'm sorry I said the wrong thing again."

Scott interrupted the self-chastisement. "You've got it wrong, Johnny."

When he stepped out of the shadows, Johnny marveled at the change he could see in Scott's eyes.

The sadness and pain were still there, but the fear and the awful emptiness had been banished. There was even a credible smile on his lips.

"For once, little brother, you said the right thing."

Johnny's surprised stare helped Scott recover even more equilibrium. The elder Lancer slapped his brother on the cheek affectionately, then flung his arm around Johnny's shoulders.

"Come on, let's see if Mrs. Hodges saved us any of that pie," Scott suggested.

Still locked together, they walked to the kitchen door grinning like a pair of fools.

* * *

><p>They were still licking crumbs from their fingers when they rejoined the family in the front room.<p>

Caroline broke off in mid-word and ran to greet her cousin. Expressions of concern trembled on her lips, but she'd hardly uttered a word when the shatter of a breaking glass cut her short.

Gerald drew bleeding fingers away from the brandy glass he'd slapped down on the table. He didn't seem to notice his cut hand. He had greater pains on his mind.

"You're running to him again!" he shouted at his wife, who shrank back in surprise.

Gerald had been drinking steadily all evening, enough to loosen his tongue but not enough to slur his words or dull the obvious anguish in his voice.

"You always run to him, always talk about him! I know it was only an accident you married me. I know you always preferred Scott, but do you have to parade it in front of the family?"

His voice rose in agony, and his fist rose too, as if he might strike Caroline or Scott; but then he let his hand drop.

"I love you Caroline. If you can't love me, couldn't you at least pretend?"

He turned blindly and blundered out of the room.

Caroline clung to Scott for a moment in shock, then realizing her position, she flushed and chased after her husband.

Scott stood stock-still. Johnny's heart sank, fearing the unexpected scene had brought on a relapse. But Scott was merely suffering from surprise. Frederick shoved a glass of brandy in his hand.

"You need this more than I do," he said.

Scott drained it in a gulp.

"Thanks," he gasped.

"Feel like it's partly my fault," Gerald's father explained. "Knew something was bothering the boy, but I never dreamed it was this old thing, or I would have warned you. Thought all this was dead and buried years ago."

"So did I," Scott said mildly. "I think I'd better talk to Gerald. Straighten him out."

"Better wait until morning," Frederick suggested. "Leave him with Caroline tonight."

Mort and Eve hustled their children out the door. They were beginning to feel the family gatherings were jinxed. Still, this dinner was not as bad as the last one when Harlan collapsed with his heart attack.

The rest of the guests quickly shuffled off to their rooms before anything else could happen.

Gary paused to pump Scott's hand.

"I really enjoyed myself tonight, Scott. Can't say when I've had more fun at one of these shows," he said with obvious sincerity.

Scott squeezed his cousin's hand hard, preventing Gary from escaping.

"Don't press your luck, Gary," he warned gently, but with a wolfish smile.

He released his cousin. A snarl began on Gary's face, as he turned away, only to come face to face with Johnny who had been standing right behind him. The unexpected encounter with a known killer, who would have been glad to break Gary's neck that afternoon, wiped all trace of defiance from Gary Desmond's face.

Johnny just clapped him again on his sore shoulder.

"Sleep tight, Gary," was all he said.

Desmond shivered. He slunk out the door, but when he knew the Lancers couldn't see him, he cast a hate-filled glare in their direction. With that gesture of independence, he went upstairs.

* * *

><p>Acting as host in place of his grandfather, Scott saw all the guests to bed and bribed the children with sweet rolls to keep them in their rooms until late the next morning. He knew, after the late night, the adults habitually slept until noon.<p>

Scott settled his grandfather down, looked in on the clean up, and ordered the staff to sleep late.

His chores done, Scott sat on the edge of his bed and listened to the clock strike two. He had taken off his shoes and tie, and was trying to summon enough energy to change into his nightclothes, when Johnny, already in his nightshirt, came through the connecting door.

"You look beat," the younger man said.

"I feel beat," Scott admitted.

Very slowly, the fair-haired brother changed and crawled into the bed. The whole evening had taken on the overtones of a nightmare, as far as Scott was concerned. He was glad to put it behind him.

"So what did you think?" he asked his brother ruefully.

Johnny pondered for a moment, then replied so seriously that he set Scott to laughing uncontrollably.

"It wasn't as bad as I expected."

* * *

><p><em><strong>Eastbound train<strong>_

Murdoch lay cramped in a sleeping compartment too small for his broad-shouldered frame. Despite the discomfort and his worry over the ominous letter, the rancher slept soundly, as he'd trained himself to do during a lifetime of roundups.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lancer Ranch<strong>_

Teresa closed up the Lancer ranch house for the night and blew out the lamps. It wasn't the first time she'd been alone in the big house. However, fear for her family, so far away, made all the shadows seem darker, and all the night noises louder and more dangerous.

She lay awake for a long time and when she slept, it was a restless, dream-broken slumber.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Garrett Mansion<strong>_

Scott fell asleep in the middle of a conversation with his brother. He was totally exhausted — mentally more than physically. Johnny's soft voice didn't rouse him.

Realizing his brother was asleep, Johnny sat and rocked. He felt completely content, as he watched the lines of care erased from Scott's face.

The house seemed so peaceful, he hated to leave. Finally he crept from the chair, turned down the gas lamp and went to his own room.

A healthy young man with a clear conscience, he slept as well as usual.

* * *

><p>There were many in the house who didn't sleep well that night. Some lay awake in pain, some because their consciences weren't as clear as Johnny's, and some because bitterness churned their stomachs and tumbled their thoughts.<p>

And there was one who didn't sleep at all.

* * *

><p>When Scott awoke, he felt more himself than he had since he had returned Adam Jeffers' playful salute and accepted the fateful telegram.<p>

He bounded up, dressed swiftly yet impeccably, and with cheerful rudeness burst into Johnny's room without knocking. Fair is fair, after all.

Johnny was a huddled lump under the covers when Scott threw back the curtains and flung up the windows to let in glorious golden sunshine and sweetly scented garden air.

"What are you doing?" the lump asked.

"Rise and shine, brother," Scott said exuberantly.

The lump developed an eye.

"Dawn has broken. 'Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tip-toe on the misty mountain tops'," the Harvard-educated Lancer quoted.

The eye liked what it saw. A rumpled head emerged. The pair of eyes liked what they saw twice as much.

Prowling around the room, which had been his playroom as a child, Scott's eye fell on the rocking horse, which Harlan had given him for his second birthday. A shadow of sadness touched his eyes when he thought of his grandfather. He didn't try to suppress the sadness. He let it flow into pleasant memories, which banished the shadow.

Scott grinned at the slugabed's assessing expression.

"Well, come on," he ordered. "You're the one who said dawn was the proper time to get up."

Johnny looked at the sun blazing in and estimated it must be at least 9 o'clock.

"That's not dawn," he observed.

"No," Scott agreed.

"We're late," Johnny commented.

"You are," Scott corrected.

"Why didn't you wake me?" Johnny cried in mock dismay as he swept the bed covers aside.

Scott scorned to answer him.

While Johnny poured water in a basin and splashed his face, Scott explored the memories in the playroom. It still contained many of his favorite toys, the ones his father couldn't bear to get rid of. The rocking horse had been his favorite for many years. Even after he got too big to ride it, Rocket had been his confidant and companion. He found the sailboat he and Harlan had made together. The mast had been glued crooked by childish fingers, but somehow the boat had sailed, though with a decided list. Even the furniture offered memories — the chair in which nurse Anna, his favorite of the many, had rocked him to sleep. The bed was more recent, moved in after the war ended for him, when he again needed a nurse nearby.

With this sour memory intruding on the bittersweet, Scott turned away only to find that memories lurked everywhere that morning. He found himself nose to nose with Johnny's Colt. Fixed tight in its holster, the revolver dangled from the well-used gun belt, which was slung over the limb of a hat tree.

This brought more recent memories, more vivid for their newness — powder scent mixed with dust kicked up by churning hooves; staring into the face of danger with his trusted brother at his side, or at his back. He remembered being held hostage and watching Johnny walk coldly into that house of death because Lancers take care of their own. Scott smiled at the memory, though his father and brother didn't find it amusing.

He patted the Colt, thinking it looked lonely hanging from the hat tree. And Johnny looked unfinished without it, especially since he had donned the everyday clothes he wore on the ranch.

Johnny licked his palm and tried to plaster down his unruly, dark hair. He caught his brother's eye in the mirror.

"What are you looking at?" he laughed.

"Someone who's half-starved," Scott guessed shrewdly.

Johnny expressed shocked agreement, as if he'd only realized the truth of Scott's statement. Scott punched him lightly in the stomach and led the way out the door. His brother followed, grinning widely.

Like the day before, the brothers had the house to themselves, though the hour was further advanced.

They brought their breakfast into the dining room, which was again set for the house full of guests. While they ate side by side, they looked out the French doors at the garden.

When Scott commented on the garden pond, Johnny replied that he hadn't really seen the garden. He'd been in it, the morning and the night before, but hadn't seen much in the dark.

Scott sprang to his feet with enthusiasm.

"Then I'll have to show you the garden, brother. The rose beds are particularly beautiful this time of year," he announced.

Johnny laughed at his brother's eagerness.

"Can it wait until I finish?" he asked with his mouth full.

Scott strode around the table and flung the French doors wide. He stepped out on the veranda, breathing deeply and blinking at the sudden change from the shaded dining room to the sunlit garden.

A faint noise drew his attention to the windows of the east wing. The light reflected from the windows was blinding, but Scott thought he saw someone moving by an open window, Johnny's room, he realized.

He leaned back, shading his eyes against the glare.

"Hello!" he called "Who's …?"

* * *

><p>The crash of the gunshot brought Johnny to his feet, overturning his chair, as Scott was thrown to the flagstones.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>And, finally, there's the real To Be Continued<strong>


	10. Where the Heart Is

**Chapter 10: Where the Heart Is**

_**The Garrett mansion, Boston**_

A faint noise drew Scott's attention to the windows of the east wing. The light reflected from the windows was blinding, but Scott thought he saw someone moving by an open window, Johnny's room, he realized.

He leaned back, shading his eyes against the glare.

"Hello!" he called "Who's …?"

* * *

><p>The crash of the gunshot brought Johnny to his feet, overturning his chair, as Scott was thrown to the flagstones.<p>

Johnny's fine-tuned reactions sent his hand to his holsterless thigh, before memory caught up with reflex.

Cursing in frustration and fear, Johnny vaulted the table, sending dishes flying.

The shot had silenced the twittering birds outside, but roused the slumbering inhabitants of the house. Johnny heard cries of alarm from the house and a rustle in the bushes, as if a rabbit fled the suddenly dangerous veranda.

Johnny paused, back pressed to the flimsy doorjamb, to survey the scene. Nothing moved. God, even Scott didn't move. Voices were growing louder in the house, but Johnny could sense no danger outside.

Even if bullets had been falling like hailstones, they couldn't have kept the unarmed man from the side of his brother.

Scott's eyes were wide with shock that turned to a plea when they met Johnny's. The wounded man's mouth worked, but no sound emerged; then Scott went limp.

For a terrifying moment, Johnny thought he held his brother's dead body; but he saw Scott was still breathing, with difficulty, but with regularity. Then there was still a chance, Johnny realized, if he could just stop the blood that poured from Scott's chest.

A leap carried Johnny to the dining room, which he stripped of its fine linen napkins. He ran back to Scott. He tried to stanch the flow of blood, but could only slow it down. The gaping wound frightened Johnny more than any of the horrors of his 23 years. He pushed away the thought that he'd never seen anyone survive such a grave wound.

God! Wasn't anyone ever going to come?

Someone was. Boots crunched heavily on the gravel path leading from the stables. Random skidded to a halt, stunned by the gory scene, as Hodges and his wife in hastily donned robes, tumbled out of the dining room. They stopped, just as shocked.

"Where's the nearest doctor?" Johnny snapped. Fear made his voice harsh, but the harshness seemed to steady the others.

"Boston City Hospital, just around the corner," Hodges gasped.

Johnny remembered Scott pointing out the stately dome on Worcester Square.

"The wagon's hitched," Random announced. He spun and was gone.

Mrs. Hodges chased her husband inside to get dressed, if he was going with Johnny to the hospital. She grabbed some clean dishtowels from the kitchen and returned to the veranda on the run.

The family poured down the stairway, but Johnny's snarl kept them back when they threatened to overflow out the French doors. It took a moment for the sense of the bloody scene to penetrate, then Caroline's scream shook the already shaken family.

"Scott!" she cried hysterically. "You've killed him! You've killed him!" she screamed at Johnny.

Her husband turned away, sick. Her father-in-law grabbed her, shook her and slapped her hard, as if he'd always wanted to. Caroline collapsed into sobs. Frederick threw her into surprised Winifred's arms.

"Keep her quiet," Frederick ordered, then pushed his way onto the veranda to help.

Annabell took charge of the crowd, ordering the children away and sending Eve up to sit with Harlan, who was shouting questions from his bedroom.

Johnny ignored them all. He smoothed his brother's forehead with a trembling hand. Scott moaned.

"Stay with me, Scott. Don't leave me. Don't leave," Johnny pleaded.

* * *

><p>The rattle and clash of a heavy wagon pierced the air. Random whipped the horses in a mad charge through the manicured flowerbed. The double team plowed through the shrubbery, uprooting plants with their tearing hooves, carving a long scar with the wheels of the heavy utility wagon.<p>

Random turned the team in the tulip bed and backed onto the veranda. The men lifted Scott to the bed of the wagon. Johnny leaped in and cradled Scott's head in his lap. He pressed a red wad of towels against the wound, which refused to stop bleeding.

With Hodges beside him, Random sent the team forward at a brisk walk, trying to make speed without bouncing the injured man.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Boston City Hospital<strong>_

The hospital staff took charge with brisk efficiency. They whisked Scott away, leaving Johnny standing at loose ends, feeling suddenly, horribly alone. Still covered with his brother's blood, Johnny's hands trembled uncontrollably as he stood in the hall like a lost child. A kindly nurse showed him where he could wash up. Johnny took a long time, working slowly, even rubbing ineffectually at the stains on his clothes. Concentrating on the washing helped him not think about Scott.

When he finally made his way back to the waiting room, he sent Hodges and Random back to the house to tell everyone what had happened. Then he settled down to wait.

Actually, he didn't settle down at all. He paced restlessly around the halls. With sweat on his forehead, he shivered nervously and rubbed his hands as if to warm them.

Patience was a virtue Johnny Madrid had cultivated. He could wait coolly for the executioner to swing his axe, as long as it was his own head on the chopping block. With his brother's life at peril and nothing he could do to help, Johnny was as fretful as a steer in a windstorm.

With no word from the house or from the doctor, Johnny's wait seemed to last forever. Actually, it was little more than an hour before Dr. Andrew MacGregor hurried out of the operating room. Trained in the days before anesthetics, the middle-aged surgeon still operated with remarkable speed even when chloroform was available.

He approached Johnny with a haste that brought the westerner to his feet. The doctor hadn't bothered to change the blood-spattered coat he used for operations. The grave expression on his face made Johnny's throat contract.

"Doc?" Johnny wouldn't have recognized that hoarse croak as his own.

His hurry thickened the doctor's Scottish brogue.

"Lad, I'm afraid your brother is dying," he said.

The stricken look in Johnny's eyes made the doctor hurry on.

"Now, it's not hopeless, yet. There's a chance, if you're willing. Lad, I need your blood."

Johnny was totally bewildered. MacGregor sat him down on a bench and took the seat next to him.

"Listen carefully, we've not much time but I won't have you doing this blind," he said. "You know your brother lost a great deal of blood before you got here…" Unconsciously Johnny rubbed his hands together. "… and he lost more during the operation," the doctor continued. "We retrieved the bullet from the lung and repaired the damage. We followed Lister's process, a new process that seems to help prevent infection. I'd say he has a good chance for recovery, except for the blood loss. His pulse is getting fainter and his heart rhythm is showing irregularities. Lad, with your permission, I'd like to give him what we call a blood transfusion."

Johnny looked blank.

The doctor explained, "I will take some of your blood and put it into your brother."

"Can you do that?" Johnny asked in confusion.

"It's been done. Yes," MacGregor said. "But there's a risk. Blood transfusions are safe in better than 50 percent of the cases. The chances are even better when the donor and the patient are close relatives, such as brothers."

Johnny was beginning to comprehend a little.

"Doc, Scott and I are half-brothers — same father, different mothers. Does that make a difference?"

"It might, but we don't really know for sure. Successful transfusions have been made between total strangers; yet in one case I know, the blood of a woman was given to her full sister and we might as well have pumped poison in her system. We don't know why, but some transfusions are fatal."

"You mean, there's a chance my blood would poison Scott?"

"Yes. The odds are in our favor, but there is that chance. That's why …" The doctor let it trail off.

"That's why you only try this when the patient had no other hope," Johnny finished in an empty voice.

MacGregor nodded.

The former gunfighter faced the hard truth squarely and knew there was no decision to make. Lancers fight to the last drop of blood. "Let's do it, Doc."

* * *

><p>The operating room reeked of chloroform and carbolic, but Johnny hardly noticed. He stared at his brother's still form. Scott laid motionless, jaw slack, on a wooden table. Partly covered by a blood-spattered sheet, he was as pale as the white bandage strapped around his chest. For a panicky moment, Johnny thought they were too late, but then he saw the faint movement of Scott's chest.<p>

"Bring the Higginson's syringe. Lively now!" MacGregor ordered.

The young doctors had fallen into a self-conscious silence upon Johnny's entry. MacGregor's command galvanized them into action. One pushed another table close to the operating table. He told Johnny to take off his shirt, then lie down.

The other young man brought a clattering tray of instruments to MacGregor.

Johnny lay gingerly on the table, never taking his eyes from Scott, not even when MacGregor opened the vein in his arm and tied in the rubber tube.

The dimly remembered prayers of Johnny's Mexican childhood returned, blurred by the many years when he believed in nothing but his gun and his reflexes.

"Santa Maria, Madre de Dios, por favor…" he whispered.

"Dr. Cliff, please check the patient's pulse," MacGregor said as he concentrated on finding the shrunken vein in Scott's arm.

The younger doctor stationed at Scott's head felt for the carotid artery.

"It's getting weaker, sir. I can hardly feel it."

"Well, we're ready now, lad," MacGregor said. He gestured toward the bulb at the center of the rubber tube that linked Johnny and Scott. "Dr. Swanson, I want you to pump this gently, but steadily. We'll draw a pint, no more. Carefully now."

With great care, the assistant surgeon began pumping the bulb on the syringe. MacGregor nodded in approval, as the tube swelled with fluid and the sound of the pump changed. As the blood came out the far end, MacGregor made the last incision to insert it into his patient's vein. He nodded again in satisfaction as the vein swelled with the life-giving fluid.

The surgeon turned to Johnny who had used his free arm to prop himself up to watch the procedure.

"Keep still, lad, and try not to move that arm around," he cautioned.

Johnny only half-heard. He seemed to feel the blood being drawn out and willed life and strength into that flow.

Pulse is stronger, sir," Cliff reported, but it wasn't necessary. Everyone in the room could see traces of color returning to Scott's skin. His breathing deepened. Though it sounded pained, Johnny thought it was the finest sound he'd ever heard. The younger Lancer's eyes blurred with tears of relief.

MacGregor and Cliff busied themselves checking vital signs. Swanson dutifully kept pumping.

Johnny blinked away the tears, but the blurring remained. That surprised Johnny. He lifted his free hand to rub his eyes, and couldn't keep his balance on his side. He thumped onto his back, which surprised him more.

It surprised MacGregor, too.

When he saw Johnny staring dizzily at the ceiling, he snatched the bulb away from his startled assistant.

"I said a pint! Can ye no watch what yuir doin'?" he roared.

Stricken, Swanson stammered apologies. He hurriedly explained he'd never done a blood transfusion before. MacGregor calmed down fast when he saw Johnny wasn't seriously hurt. He waved Swanson to silence.

"My own fault. You had no way to measure it. I should have been watching," the surgeon said, as he disconnected the tube and closed and bandaged the small incision.

Johnny felt strange; but it was a familiar kind of strange. Professional gunfighters have been known to suffer from sudden blood loss upon violent occasion; so the dizziness and weakness were familiar. But Johnny thought it was strange to feel that way without having a gaping hole somewhere in his body.

"Mr. Lancer?" MacGregor's voice drew back Johnny's wandering attention. "We only meant to take a pint, but it seems we may have taken nearly twice that."

Johnny focused his gaze on MacGregor's homely face. He said with simple sincerity, "You can have it all if it'll help Scott."

MacGregor smiled gently.

"I don't think that will be necessary. His condition seems to be stabilizing."

"Will he be all right?" Johnny asked with dawning hope.

"I couldn't say, lad. The crisis is over, but the battle had only begun. Infection is the real killer. By the grace of God, we've no epidemics here, but pyaemia is always a chance, even with my old professor's carbolic treatment. We'll have to hope you're brother can fight it off. He is young and healthy, that's in his favor. There's no more I can tell you. It's in God's hands now."

The two young doctors wheeled Scott out of the room. Johnny watched in silence, but as the door swung closed, he heaved himself into a sitting position. His head clamored and a grayness washed the edge of his vision, but he braced himself upright and fought down the dizziness and the nausea.

MacGregor's voluble protests gave Johnny something to focus on and helped him regain his equilibrium. He gave the Scotsman a feeble but game grin and shook his head, very slowly.

"No, I can't stay here. I've got things to do. I've got to wire my father and I've got to find out who shot my brother. I can't do either while I'm lying here."

"You've lost too much blood to go traipsin' about. You need to rest for a bit." MacGregor was expounding on the theme, and coming close to convincing Johnny who wasn't feeling any better, when the operating room door banged open.

MacGregor spun around in exasperation, ready to roar, but confusion choked off his anger. The men were strangers, not members of the hospital staff.

"Who're you?" he demanded, then he blinked in surprise at the belated realization that three of the four intruders were uniformed constables.

"Hi Wes," Johnny said to the fourth man.

Constable Jeremiah Wesley's face was set in hard lines. He looked like a man expecting trouble. His unbuttoned coat was pushed back and his hand rested ominously on his sidearm.

A warning stabbed at Johnny's instinct for self-preservation. He was too muzzy to puzzle it out, but the internal alarm drove him to his feet. He had to keep a tight grip on the table, because vertigo clawed at him fiercely.

The ragged shreds of a stubborn will brought up his dimming eyes to meet the constable's.

"John Lancer," Wes said, his voice empty of all emotion. "I'm placing you under arrest for the attempted murder of your brother, Scott Lancer."

The shock rocked Johnny.

He said, "That's crazy," as he took one step forward, one step too many. Then he was falling. He looked at the floor rising toward him and thought, academically, that the impact was going to hurt. But he hit oblivion before he hit the ground, so he never knew that MacGregor caught him while the constables stared at the deadly gunfighter, unconscious on the operating room floor.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Office of the Boston Constabulary<strong>_

Well-wrapped in blankets, Johnny woke up in a darkened cell of an unfamiliar jail. He felt chilly, curiously light-headed and not inclined to move, so he curled in a bundle while he prodded his sluggish brain into remembering where he was and why.

God, I feel strange, he thought. Have I been sick?

There was something about a hospital, he remembered. And a doctor … MacGregor!

With that recognition, the fuzzy images in his mind resolved into clarity and he remembered. He closed his eyes and pulled the blankets closer, fighting again the chilling double shock of Scott's injury and his own arrest. He struggled until he found the stubborn core of his personality that refused to give up. It was that fighting spirit that kept an orphaned child alive in a series of vicious border towns, that allowed him to kill a bullying professional gunhawk when he was only fifteen.

Johnny breathed deep, finding the professional calm that carried him through so many fights.

And when he breathed deep, he smelled food.

Johnny opened his eyes and cocked his head at Wes who stood outside the cell, a steaming bowl of stew in his hands.

"'Lo, Wes," he said without moving from his comfortable cocoon.

"Johnny," Wes acknowledged. "Brought you some food. Dr. MacGregor said you'd be hungry when you woke up."

"He was right," Johnny agreed, struggling to sit up without losing his blankets.

Wes entered the cell and sat at the end of the bunk, studying Johnny while the Californian wolfed down the stew. Johnny returned the scrutiny with interest.

Wes had lost the contained hostility he'd shown in the operating room. Now he just looked puzzled.

"How's Scott?" Johnny asked with his mouth full.

"Still hanging on. He hasn't been able to answer any questions, though. Scott's developed a fever — sepsis, MacGregor called it. I had to look it up to find out it meant 'infection.' He looks so sick, it scares me; but MacGregor doesn't seem overly concerned."

Wes looked at his hands. His concern for his old friend was obvious. Johnny shared it. He kept seeing that white form on the operating table.

"MacGregor hasn't been overly cooperative since I arrested you," Wes said. "He says it's ridiculous to believe you would shoot Scott, then give your blood to save his life. I'm inclined to agree."

He looked at Johnny for a long moment, then continued gently. "What happened, Johnny? Was it an accident? Did the gun go off by itself?"

Johnny's jaw stopped its motion. He swallowed and said calmly, "Wes, I guess you're not going to believe this, but I didn't shoot Scott. And I don't know why you think I did."

Wes bowed his head. When he looked up, his eyes were bleak.

"OK," he said with real regret. "You could have had it the easy way. Now … I hope you're as tough as you think you are."

* * *

><p>The room was bare and stuffy. All three men were sweating heavily.<p>

Chief Constable Marcus Powers slammed his hand on the table, making the room's only lamp jiggle and dance. Powers started at the beginning again.

"Why'd you shoot him, Lancer?" he roared.

"I didn't," Johnny said tightly. "The shot came from upstairs. I was in the dining room."

"It was your gun, Johnny," Wes said with sweet reasonableness.

"I left the gun upstairs. I haven't worn it since I got to Boston. Scott told me I wouldn't need it. You told me I wouldn't need it," Johnny accused.

"You were heard arguing last night."

"We weren't arguing. Scott was just blowing off steam."

"Was it for the money, Lancer?" Powers asked. "Half a ranch is better than a third. And your father is getting old. Soon you'll have it all to yourself."

Johnny didn't answer. He closed his eyes in weariness. His face was white and drawn, and he was trembling from weakness. It was almost dawn and they'd been at it all night, going over and over the same points.

"Damn it, Johnny. How do you expect us to believe you're innocent? It was your gun. We found it in the bushes where you threw it."

Johnny knew now it hadn't been a rabbit he heard.

"You were the only one there, and you're the only one with any motive. No one else in that house gains anything from Scott's death. And you expect us to believe you're innocent?" Wes demanded.

""Yes!" Johnny snapped, his composure gone. "Yes! If you understood, you'd know it didn't make any sense!"

"Then explain it to us, Johnny," Wes said softly.

He and Powers were surprised. They'd achieved what they had wanted, but not what they'd expected. They'd opened him up, but they hadn't broken his story, only his habitual reserve.

Johnny looked at Wes and smiled feebly. "You remember Scott's metaphor, about me being broke to halter but not to saddle …"

Wes nodded.

"…Well, it's not true. Murdoch and Scott have got me broke to harness — but I can only pull as part of a team. If I had Lancer all to myself, I'd probably kick over the traces and run away," Johnny said. "It's just over two years since I found out I had a family. I'm not ready to give them up, yet. I've got no reason to kill Scott. Every reason not to."

Johnny looked up from contemplating his hands. His expression hardened.

"And if I did want to kill him, why would I come clear to Boston to do it. There's plenty of empty territory around Lancer where a body would never be found.

Johnny's ice blue eyes bored into the law officers. "And in the third place, if you know anything about Johnny Madrid, you'd know that if I'd meant to kill Scott, I would have."

Johnny's feral gaze drove the constables back a step. The sense of danger that emanated from him was almost palpable.

Then with a blink, the sensation passed and they were looking at a young man with dark hair dangling in front of a white face, who looked more like a tired child than a professional gunslinger.

"I didn't shoot Scott," he said wearily. "I couldn't have. I wouldn't have. He's my brother."

Johnny closed his eyes, drew his feet up on the chair, put his head on his knees, and went to sleep.

* * *

><p>Powers gestured for Wes to follow him outside. Wes asked what his superior thought.<p>

"Either that boy is the best liar I've ever seen, or he's not lying," the chief constable said. "The trouble is, all the evidence is against him."

"You know the bullet wound was odd," Wes said. "By MacGregor's description of the wound, the bullet could have come from above like Johnny said."

"Or Scott could have been bending over when the shot hit. No, there's no hard evidence that Johnny didn't do it, and a lot of circumstantial evidence that he did. But I believe him."

"So what are we going to do, Mark?"

"I want you to start collecting evidence — discreetly. See if anyone else in that house had a motive to want Scott Lancer dead. If anyone asks, you can say you're gathering evidence to support the case against Johnny," Powers directed. Then he changed his mind. "On second thought, tell them the truth. Tell them we don't think Johnny did it. See if that shakes anyone up."

"Is that all? What about Johnny?"

"Well, we can't let him go, that's for sure. I've already had a message from the mayor's office ordering me to bring Lancer before a judge immediately. The Garretts are big supporters of the mayor, you know," Powers said sardonically.

Wes nodded.

"We'll keep Johnny here," Powers said. "When he wakes up, we can find out what he knows about the Garretts."

"That's fine with me," Wes said. "But aren't you going to keep getting messages from the mayor demanding an arraignment?"

"I suppose so, but I've got the perfect excuse to wait awhile," the chief constable said as he moved toward his office.

"What's that?" Wes called after him.

Powers gave his subordinate a sympathetic look. "I don't know what charge to bring against him," he explained kindly. "Attempted murder, or murder in the first degree. It all depends on your friend, Scott, doesn't it?"

* * *

><p>The business day was just getting underway when Constable Jeremiah Wesley had two of his men put Johnny to bed in his cell. They were getting used to it. It was the second time they had put the man to bed, though this time he was merely asleep in exhaustion, not unconscious from loss of blood.<p>

Before he went back to Harlan Garrett's mansion, Wes made a stop at the telegraph office. He'd put it off until after Johnny's interrogation, but he didn't think he should delay any longer.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Lancer Ranch<strong>_

Adam Jeffers and his pinto pony headed toward Lancer at a slow canter. He felt guilty that it wasn't a gallop, but he was too reluctant to deliver the bad news to urge the pony to greater speed. Besides, the tears in his eyes made it too hard to see.

When Teresa let him into the house, Adam handed her the telegram without a word. His tear-stained face brought a lump of fear to the girl's throat. Her hand shook when she read:

SCOTT SERIOUSLY WOUNDED STOP JOHNNY ARRESTED FOR SHOOTING HIM STOP EVIDENCE STRONG BUT CIRCUMSTANTIAL STOP GARRETTS PUSHING FOR TRIAL BUT INVESTIGATION STILL UNDERWAY STOP SORRY

It was signed, "Constable Wesley, a friend of Scott's."

Teresa handed the message to Jelly Hoskins who'd appeared as soon as he saw Adam's pinto.

"My pa's already wiring Mr. Lancer," Adam said. "As soon as the message came in, he said …" The boy paused and grinned feebly. "… I guess he wouldn't want me to say exactly what he said, Miss Teresa."

Jelly snorted. The old wrangler knew Jason Jeffers' penchant for salty language. Even Teresa managed a smile.

"Anyway," Adam continued. "Pa said, if those, uh, dratted Easterners think they can set up Johnny, they're wrong. He sent a message to the station ahead of Mr. Lancer's train, telling him about this."

"You know what this means, don't ya?" Jelly asked.

Teresa nodded. Her voice was strained but steady as she replied, "It means Michaelson was wrong. The people he overheard weren't talking about killing Harlan. They were planning to kill Scott!"

**Oh yeah, To Be Continued**

_A/N: Yes, they did do transfusions before they understood blood types. I'm no mathematician, but as best as I can tell, the odds are in favor of a transfusion. Full brothers would take after one of their parents, but it seems to me the odds are better than 50-50 because the majority of Americans are O+ (37 percent) or A+ (34 percent). And someone with O+ blood can donate to anyone with a positive blood type. The permutations are too complex for me. I think Johnny is O positive (the most common kind), so as long as Scott has a positive blood type, the transfusion will be OK. Now there' s only infection and a murderer on the loose to worry about._


	11. Family Matters

**Chapter 11: Family Matters**

_**Eastbound train, April 1871**_

Murdoch Lancer was dozing in his seat when the conductor brought the telegram he'd picked up at the last stop.

As he paused to survey his passengers, the uniformed Negro saw Murdoch freeze when he read the message. The big man seemed to turn to stone, his face was set as if carved in granite. The conductor was glad he wasn't responsible for the telegram that had changed this pleasant if broody passenger.

Murdoch caught the conductor's eye and beckoned. The Lancer patriarch asked when they were due at the next station and then he asked whether the conductor could supply any telegram forms.

"I have to send several messages," he said grimly.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Garrett mansion, Boston<strong>_

Wes decided to start at the top.

Mrs. Hodges let the constable in and showed him upstairs, to where her husband and the doctor were talking in low voices in the hall.

"I'm afraid the shock of Scott's shooting has made Mr. Garrett's condition more precarious," Dr. Benjamin Fraser said sadly.

"But I thought he looked so much better today," Hodges protested with tears in his eyes.

The doctor smiled faintly.

"Oh, he's a fighter all right," he agreed with admiration. "But I'm afraid he's running on nervous energy at the moment, living on hope. If Scott dies …" Fraser let it trail off and shook her head hopelessly.

Mrs. Hodges hands flew to her mouth. Her husband's trembled.

"But we can't give up," the doctor said briskly. "Let's try this new medicine. Maybe it will calm those heart palpitations."

He handed Hodges a bottle of pills. "Alternate these with the other ones. One every two hours, starting with these."

"Yes, doctor." Hodges nodded his understanding.

Wes stepped forward. The two men looked at him curiously.

"Constable." Hodges recognized Wes and introduced him to Dr. Benjamin Fraser. "He's investigating the shooting," Hodges explained to the doctor.

"What's to investigate?" Fraser asked with the unconscious arrogance of a Boston Brahmin. "You already have the killer in custody."

"In the first place, Scott isn't dead," Wes said with deceptive mildness. "In the second place, the Boston Constabulary never accuses a man of any crime without a thorough investigation."

"No, of course not, and quite right, too," the doctor said, put on the defensive by the anger he saw in Wesley's eyes.

"I'd like to see Mr. Garrett, if he's up to it," Wes continued.

"Well … I don't know …" Fraser said judiciously.

"He's been asking me to fetch you, sir," Hodges told the constable.

"Then I'd better see him," Wes said. "I wouldn't want to upset Mr. Garrett any more than he's already been."

Wes pushed past the doctor, knocked and entered Harlan's bedroom.

"I don't suppose it will hurt anything," the doctor said indignantly to the constable's back. "I'll be back tomorrow," he told Hodges. "See that you keep Mr. Garrett in bed and quiet." Fraser glared at the closed door of the bedroom. "And try to keep his visitors to a minimum. Too much excitement is the very worst thing for him."

Still in a huff, Fraser stormed out of the house.

* * *

><p>"Who are you?" Harlan snapped at the constable with some of his old fire.<p>

Though he was still gaunt from being unable to keep his food down, though his heart was still subject to fits of frantic pounding, he looked better than he had when Scott first arrived, or even when Scott and Johnny had helped him downstairs two nights before.

His eyes were alert. There was color in his cheeks and his voice was hard and steady. Wes thought he looked dauntingly formidable, not like a sick old man at all.

The scent of battle agrees with the old warhorse, he thought, remembering some of Scott's stories. Wes knew Scott was a fighter. He saw Scott's grandfather was the same.

"You going to state your business, or have you come to rob an old man in his sickbed," Harlan asked waspishly.

Wes introduced himself. His name seemed familiar to Harlan.

"Scott and I were in the cavalry together," Wes explained.

Harlan nodded recognition. Emotion shadowed his face. For a moment, he looked all of his 80 years. "Is Scotty …"

"Still holding on." Wes hastened to reassure him.

Harlan's relief was manifest. He didn't try to hide it, but didn't speak until he had his relief and his worry under icy control again.

"Tell me why you're fool enough to believe Johnny Lancer shot my grandson," he demanded.

"I don't," Wes replied, surprising Harlan.

Quickly Wes explained the reasons he and his superior believed Johnny innocent.

"Our instincts say he's not guilty, but our instincts aren't admissible in court," Wes said. "All the evidence points Johnny's direction. I was hoping you might be able to supply some that pointed another way. Who would profit from Scott's death."

Harlan's mouth twisted wryly.

"As far as I know, only his brother, his father and me," he said. "I don't believe Scott's made a will, what young man does? Without a will — even with one, most likely — his property would go to his nearest relative, his father Murdoch Lancer, who is in California. His share of the ranch would be split between the two remaining partners, Johnny and Murdoch. His great-grandmother's trust fund would revert to me, just as it did when his mother …" Harlan stopped suddenly and fought for control.

Wes looked away politely and changed the subject.

"What about the servants? Anyone hold a grudge against Scott?"

"That's preposterous," Harlan declared. "The Hodges helped raise Scott. They helped raise his mother, for that matter. And the maids adore him. He wrote letters from California to the whole house. Dulcie and Estelle would take turns reading aloud and wondering whether he was getting enough to eat and who was darning his socks. No, none of the servants have any reason to try to kill Scott."

"You know what you're saying, don't you, sir?" Wes asked quietly.

"Yes," Harlan answered in hardly more than a whisper. "Yes. I'm saying that someone in my family tried to murder my grandson."

"Would anyone of them have a motive? Money?"

Harlan shook his head. "No, as I said, only Johnny, Murdoch and me. But there are other motives, constable."

Wes nodded as the old man began to tell about Gerald's outburst at the dinner party and about the earlier fight between Scott and Gary Desmond. He concentrated on Gary and Gerald, because their actions had seemed the most threatening, but he didn't skimp on any details of the dinner party. He even described the loud words between Scott and Johnny, but offered his opinion that Scott had been upset by his cousins, not his brother.

As he rose to leave, Wes thanked Harlan for his time.

"Don't be silly, boy," Harlan said gruffly. His eyes were old and weary, but his jaw was set firmly. "The only thing I can do for Scotty is pray, but I'd gladly give my future and my life to catch the man who shot him."

The intensity of his anger shook the usually reserved businessman's fragile frame.

"Wes had no reply for that. He said his goodbyes quietly. He started to leave, but hesitated at the door.

"Sir?"

Harlan met his eyes.

"Sir, why …?" Wes stopped, uncertain how to phrase his question, wondering whether he ought to ask at all. A vision of Scott, unconscious and feverish in his hospital bed, reminded Wes that any unusual behavior had to be investigated.

"I'm surprised you're so certain Johnny's innocent, considering your history with the Lancers," Wes said baldly.

Harlan actually smiled.

"Old dogs occasionally learn new tricks, constable, when the lesson is harsh enough."

He wasn't going to expound, but Wes waited patiently until Harlan continued.

"I hated Murdoch Lancer," Harlan said, his eyes turning steely at the memory. "I blamed him for stealing my daughter, for taking her to that howling wilderness which killed her. I took Scott from him out of revenge, I realize now; but also out of the belief that the life Murdoch lived was too dangerous for my grandson. I hated Murdoch Lancer, but I never considered him a cold-blooded killer, nor his son, no matter what Johnny's reputation is. No matter what I think of Scotty's 'half breed half brother,' I know one thing for certain. He loves Scott and would never do anything to hurt him."

Murdoch would have found Harlan's implacable expression familiar. Wes didn't have to know him to recognize a judgment without appeal.

* * *

><p>When the maids caught the drift of Wesley's questioning, they put him in his place thoroughly.<p>

"There's no reason for us to try to kill 'im. 'E's always the gentleman, always ready for a giggle or a tease, but 'e never tries to take advantage. 'E doesn't assume you're a workin' girl, just because you're workin' for 'im," Estelle said.

"And why would we want to harm a hair on Mr. Scott's head?" Dulcie said with devastating logic. "His death would kill the master, too; and then the two of us would be out the best positions we've ever had."

* * *

><p>Sarah Hodges was up to her elbows in bread dough, her therapy in times of stress. She pummeled the dough viciously. The effort helped, but not enough.<p>

"It breaks my heart to think of it," she told Wes with tears in her eyes. "Poor Scott, lying in that hospital, and Johnny in jail. You should have seen them, giggling like a pair of schoolboys, trying to coax me out of the pie they missed while they were outside talking. Just like little boys."

She couldn't continue. She threw herself into a chair and wept into her apron. She was comforted by her husband.

"Sir, in my position you must be a good judge of character, or you end up buying vegetables at twice the market price," Hodges said. "I can't believe that Mr. John's affection for Mr. Scott was feigned. I can't and I don't. But then, I can't believe anyone would want to kill Mr. Scott."

The old butler looked totally lost.

* * *

><p>Mort Garrett looked equally lost when Wes caught him during recess at his school.<p>

"Of course, Johnny did it, constable. No one else would have. No one else could have."

Mort looked less certain than his words implied, but he refused to believe anyone he had known since childhood could be a killer.

Wes was unable to drag much more information out of Mort before recess ended and the teacher escaped back to class.

* * *

><p>Winifred Garrett Masters had a lot to say, none of it good.<p>

She was delighted to tell Wes that Johnny was no good, dangerous. It was obvious just from looking at him.

"Half blood is bad blood, you know," she said.

Winifred didn't confine her vitriol to the younger Lancer brother.

She told Wes that Gary Desmond was a spoiled brat who liked to tromp all over people who got in his way.

"But only when those people are weaker than he is," she said. "He wouldn't have the guts to face a person he hated. Shooting from ambush would be just his style."

She didn't know why his parents were so tolerant of his escapades, but then, between them, Arthur and Maybell Desmond couldn't come up with half a brain.

Gerald Garrett was always stupid, marrying a woman engaged to someone else and letting her wind him around her little finger.

"He's weak, too weak," Winifred judged. "And that wife of his is no better than she should be. Caroline is a little minx. Flirts with everything in pants. She always has to have the men panting after her."

"That's my granddaughter, you're talking about, woman," Marcus Garrett spoke up suddenly from the fireside where he had been sitting and rocking throughout Winnie's tirade.

Wes was glad to trade the woman's bitter words for Marcus' senile ramblings, just for a change of pace.

"Caroline's a good girl. She understands. She visits me. She listens to me," Marcus continued.

"Of course, she listens," Winnie muttered, loud enough for Wes to hear. "He still has his money and she's his only heir. She may be a flirt, but she knows where her bread is buttered," Winnie said, as if with reluctant admiration.

Marcus went back to muttering to himself. With a mental sigh, Wes turned back to Winnie, who continued to assess her relatives with relish.

She said Frederick was a pompous ass and his daughter-in-law was no better than a common tart. Annabell was forward, too manly by half, never knew a proper woman's place.

"There's something wrong with a woman who never marries," Winifred said, proudly pointing up her own widowed status.

Mort and Evangeline were paupers, living on the largess of their relatives.

As for Harlan, he was an old fool who let Murdoch Lancer steal his daughter, then his grandson. And then he let that viper Johnny Lancer into his home.

"Really, it's no surprise Scott got shot. He's an ingrate who ran away to strangers, no proper feeling for the people who raised him. He always was a moody boy. Look at his behavior Saturday, running out in the middle of dinner. Disgraceful," she said tartly.

"Not a proper Garrett. Not proper at all," Marcus broke in, nodding agreement to his own words. "Wants to be a Lancer, let him. Can't be a Garrett and a Lancer. Not proper."

"Mr. Garrett!" Wes said, raising his voice to penetrate the old man's self-centered fog. "Do you think Johnny Lancer shot his brother?"

"Of course not." Marcus looked genuinely surprised that Wes had to ask. "Lancers don't shoot Lancers. Garretts don't shoot Garretts. Ridiculous."

Wes felt as though he had followed Alice down the rabbit hole. He made hasty goodbyes and fled. He felt he had to get out of the house before Winnie started on the children or Marcus started to make sense.

* * *

><p>Gerald Garrett looked content and Caroline looked coy as they cuddled together shamelessly on the settee.<p>

"We were asleep. We didn't hear the shot ourselves. Our room was on the front of the house," Caroline explained.

"I probably wouldn't have heard it on the other side," Gerald confessed. "I sleep pretty soundly, especially that morning."

He tickled Caroline teasingly. She blushed and slapped his hand away playfully.

"Gerald!"

To stop the byplay, Wes asked, "What did wake you up?"

"A door banging shut," Gerald replied promptly.

"Me, too," Caroline agreed; then she gasped. "Oh! Gerald! Perhaps it was the shot that woke us after all!"

A funny, sick expression crossed Gerald's face.

"I thought it was a door slamming," he said slowly. "But maybe it was the shot."

With an effort, he threw the thought out of his mind, though he still looked nauseated.

"In any case," he continued with an effort to sound normal. "By the time I pried my eyes open, Caroline was up and I could hear doors opening in the hallway. Voices were wondering where the shots were coming from. Everyone was milling around in the hallway, and then we heard noises from downstairs."

"So we went down en masse." Caroline continued the narrative. "And I saw all that blood all over Scott and Johnny. I … I don't know what happened then. Something snapped inside me and I started screaming. I couldn't stop." Her voice shook.

Gerald wrapped his arms around her.

"My wife's always been high strung," Gerald said.

It was an apology and an explanation.

"Now that you've had time to think about it, do you still believe Johnny shot Scott?" Wes asked.

Caroline cast an anxious glance at her husband, who didn't seem to notice.

"Of course. Who else?" Gerald replied in a matter-of-fact voice. "Johnny was the only one there. I find it hard to believe that he did it on purpose. They seemed so close. It must have been an accident. Perhaps Johnny was showing Scott the gun and it misfired," he suggested.

"Oh, Gerald, you can't tell with that sort of person," Caroline said rapidly.

Gerald looked puzzled, as Caroline turned to Wes. "You know Johnny was a was a gunfighter once?" Wes nodded. "I heard him tell the children he trained himself to act without thinking," Caroline said hurriedly. "If Scott said something to upset him, he could have pulled out his gun and shot him before he even knew what he was doing."

Her antecedents were a bit confused, but her meaning was clear. Wes forbore to point out that that Johnny would have had to have been carrying his gun in his hand, ready for use, because the constables had found his empty holster upstairs in his room.

Instead, Wes said, "We have some reason to doubt Johnny's guilt. There were other people in the house who had reason to kill Scott."

As he spoke, he looked at Gerald pointedly. Color faded from Caroline's cheeks, but her husband simply looked puzzled.

"Well, Gary got into some sort of brawl with the Lancers that afternoon, but I wouldn't call it a motive," Gerald said slowly.

"What about yourself?" Wes asked softly. "You virtually accused Scott of having relations with your wife. You made threatening gestures at them. Wouldn't you say that makes you a suspect?"

Caroline turned a shade paler, but her husband laughed. It was the last thing Wes expected.

Gerald roared with apparently genuine mirth. Finally he wiped tears from his eyes and regained his breath.

"I'm sorry. It's terrible to be laughing, to be happy, while Scott may be lying on his deathbed. But, you see, constable, my wife spent the better part of the night, uh, persuading me that I'd been wrong about her and Scott, that they were only friends, that she loves me and on one else." he spoke with fierce pride and hugged his wife close.

The color rushed back to her cheeks.

"That morning I was going to go down and apologize to Scott," Gerald continued. "I was going to apologize to everyone for making a fool of myself." He shook his head. "No, I didn't have any reason to shoot Scott."

Gerald sounded sincere, Wes thought, as he was leaving; but his euphoria might be that of a man who'd neatly disposed of a rival. If Caroline's story was true, Gerald had been asleep when the shot was fired, and was still asleep when she arose after hearing the shot or the door slam. Of course, wives had been known to lie for their husbands, especially when the wives were the cause of the trouble.

Wes shook the befuddlement out of his head.

"I should have stayed in the army," he muttered to himself. "No one expected me to think for myself there."

Doggedly, he continued to the next Garrett residence.

* * *

><p>Young Laura Garrett looked composed, but her hands were clasped tight to prevent trembling.<p>

"Yes, he told us he learned to react without thinking, but that was to point out how dangerous it is. He couldn't have hurt Cousin Scott."

Annabell came downstairs and interrupted before Wes could question the girl more.

"You didn't come to see the children, constable," she said severely.

"No, ma'am" Wes answered respectfully. "Scott always respected your opinions, Miss Garrett. He used to quote them at us during the war, and I can't remember any of them being far from the truth. If Johnny didn't shoot Scott, who did?"

Annabell sighed in frustration.

"Do you think I haven't asked myself that same question? I've never seen Gerald so upset before. He's usually so controlled. He couldn't have shot anyone normally, but he wasn't normal that night.

"Gary … Gary is a poisonous beast. My nephew could easily persuade himself that it wouldn't be murder if he did it. He thinks he's perfect, you see. Heaven knows my sister has told him he's perfect enough times. And there was something about the saloon fight that Johnny and Scott weren't telling. Gary looked positively petrified every time Johnny looked at him directly. The shooting was done from ambush, just the way Gary would do it, but I had the distinct impression that Gary was too scared to try anything when Johnny was around. So I don't know.

"My sister and her husband are so besotted with Gary, they might kill to protect him; but that would mean admitting he was less than perfect, which I can't imagine. Besides, I don't think either of them could hit the side of a house with a gun.

"Now, Frederick is an excellent shot. He's a tough-minded sort who wouldn't think twice about shooting a dangerous man. His one son's widow married another man and he scorns her for her disloyalty. If he thought Scott threatened his other son's marriage, he might have shot him. But he's such a straightforward man that after the necessary job was done, he would step forward and admit it. I can't see him letting Johnny be blamed for something he did.

"Winnie wounds everyone with her tongue. She doesn't need to use a gun, though she knows how. All the men and women in Uncle Frederick's family have learned to hunt and shoot at targets. That includes Marcus. He has a collection of dueling pistols that even Frederick envies. He's grown crazy enough for anything. I can see him shooting Scott for reasons that would only make sense to him; but I can't see him keeping quiet about it. He babbles so.

"Caroline shows a trace of her grandfather's instability. All those hysterics," Annabell sighed. "She almost collapsed when she saw he had been shot. She may be married to Gerald, but she still loves Scott. Why would she hurt him?

"As for Laura's parents," Annabell smiled apologetically at the girl. "They kept pretty quiet at the dinner. They usually do. I'm afraid they feel their status as the 'poor relations.'"

"Cousin Maybell and Cousin Winnie would remind them if they forgot," Laura murmured.

"True enough, dear. Your parents are nice people. Too nice, maybe. If Mort and Eve would stand up for themselves, Maybell and Winnie would back down, I think," Annabell said.

"They make Daddy feel bad. Sometimes after the family dinners, I've heard him say he'd kill for enough money to make Cousin Maybell eat her words," Laura said, attempting to lighten the mood.

"I doubt they would profit from killing Scott," Wes said just as lightly, only to see a horrified look cross Annabell's face.

She controlled herself before Laura saw.

"Laura, why don't you get your sister ready to go?" she suggested.

After the girl excused herself, Wes said, "What did you remember?"

"Did you know Scott has a will?" Annabell asked.

"Harlan didn't think so."

"Uncle Harlan doesn't know, because he doesn't want to know. He doesn't want to think about the death of his only grandson," Annabell said. "But Scott is a practical boy. He made his first will when he went into the cavalry. The bulk of his estate was his great-grandmother's trust fund. He asked that it be divided between his fiancée Caroline and his cousin Mort. Scott really wasn't sure he could legally give away the trust, but he was sure his grandfather would respect his wishes.

"Is that will still in force?" Wes asked with interest.

"Not exactly," Annabell replied. "When Scott learned Caroline was married, he changed his will. It wouldn't have done to leave his money to a married woman, you see."

Wes nodded.

"That was after Richard Garrett had been killed, but before Mary remarried. So Scott left his money to be divided among the children of Mort and Eve and of Mary and Richard, equal portions for each of the six children," Annabell said.

"So that would give any of the parents a motive for murdering Scott," Wes mused.

"Except for two things," Annabell said. "I'm sure Scott's changed his will since then. That was before he met his father and brother."

"The Lancers are pretty well off," Wes said. "I can't picture Scott cutting his young cousins out of his will."

Annabell sighed. "You may be right. I don't know. When he was ill, after his escape from the prison camp, I helped him find a lawyer and I witnessed his will. I can't be sure what he's done in the years since. But there's one other point, constable. I don't believe Scott ever told anyone about his will." She smiled faintly. "He's a little like his grandfather in that way. I think he feels it's bad luck to talk about wills. I'm almost certain that I'm the only one in the family who knows he even has a will."

"Almost certain," Wes pressed.

"Yes," Annabell admitted. "But I can't believe Mort, Eve or Mary are desperate enough for money that they would try to kill Scott. He's always been a friend to them, even when the rest of the family wasn't. They haven't forgotten that," she said earnestly. Perhaps too earnestly, Wes thought.

After a pause, Annabell went on, "Do you want me to excuse myself next?"

"No, Miss Garrett. I guess you'd say you didn't do it and you didn't have any reason to do it — that's what everyone's said so far."

"Yes, well, it's true enough in my case. I have accepted the fact that I will never have any children of my own, constable. However, I have a good-sized family to take care of and give me comfort. I couldn't hurt a hair on any one of their heads, not even my nephew. I've seen too many of my relatives die already."

Wes met her steady gaze and knew the interview was over.

* * *

><p>After he left for the Desmonds, Laura emerged from the bedroom holding her sister by the hand. Both girls wore their coats and bonnets.<p>

"May we go now?" Laura asked.

"Yes, I think we'd better," Annabell said.

**To Be Continued**


	12. Family Plan

_Sorry it's taken me so long to update this. No excuse, I just forgot._

**Chapter 12: Family Plan**

**Office of the Boston Constabulary**

Chief Constable Mark Powers studied the telegram for the thirteenth time and found it still didn't make any sense.

He stopped a constable emerging from the cellblock.

"Is Lancer awake, yet?"

"He was when I passed, sir," the young man said.

"Then I'd better ask him what this means," Powers muttered to himself.

As he reached for the keys, however, he was interrupted by the entrance of three ladies — one elderly, one young and one very young.

"We'd like to see Mr. Johnny Lancer, please," the white-haired, matronly woman said.

Powers, a widower, noticed she had a pleasant face with laugh lines around her firm mouth and shrewd eyes.

"The prisoners may only be visited by their families and their lawyers, ma'am," he said respectfully.

Annabell didn't miss the admiration in the chief constable's eyes, but she didn't pay any attention to it, either.

"You know perfectly well that all Johnny's family is either in California or in Boston City Hospital. You might class us as cousin's -in-law, however," she said with a winning smile. "My name is Annabell Garrett. This is Laura Garrett and her sister Lisa. We brought Johnny some food and a change of clothing."

The girls held out the baskets they were carrying. Powers inspected them solemnly.

"Very well, I'll allow you to see your 'cousin-in-law'," he said, suppressing a grin.

* * *

><p>Johnny lay on the bunk in the cell, his forearm across his eyes. He was tired. His spirit as much as his body craved healing sleep; but his mind wouldn't cooperate. He'd slept like the dead at first, claimed by exhaustion; but in a short time, he sleep became troubled by nightmares. They were nightmares of fear and frustration. He tried to protect his brother, only to shoot Scott himself. He fought to get to Scott's side, only to be held back by hordes of accusing Garretts. And, in the worst one, blood poured from a wound, poured through his fingers and he tried in vain to stop it.<p>

The last was the worst, because it was closest to reality.

So he tried to sleep, only to wake in a sweat of fear, until, finally, he was afraid to sleep at all.

So he tried to think, to figure out who had tried to kill Scott and why. But all he could picture was Scott lying corpselike on the operating table and all he could remember was the last pleading look on his brother's face and all he could feel was the slippery warmth of blood on his hands …

"Johnny?"

He started out of the nightmare doze at the sound of his name.

Annabell took an involuntary step backward. The younger Lancer looked fairly corpselike himself. He managed a ghastly smile and rubbed a little life into his face.

"You'll have to forgive the way I look, ladies," he said. "The last couple days have been pretty rough. Any word on Scott?" It wasn't a question so much as a plea.

"No change, I'm afraid. Johnny, you can't go on like this. You're worrying yourself sick," Annabell said in concern. His worn appearance shocked her.

"It's tearing me up, Annabell," Johnny said hoarsely. "I want to be with Scott until he wakes up. Then I want to track down the man who tried to kill him. But I can't do anything but worry while I'm locked up here. Annabell, the man who tried to kill Scott is still out there! Maybe he'll try again. And — I — can't — do — anything — to — stop — him!"

Johnny beat on his leg for emphasis, his voice rising until it cracked; then he forced himself to sit still, so still he quivered.

Little Lisa couldn't stand it.

"Don't be sad, Cousin Johnny," she begged, as she threw herself into his arms. "Please don't cry."

So, of course he did.

He buried his face on the child's shoulder and shook the both of them with the force of his tears.

It was only a moment, but when he again looked up, some of the tension was gone. Worry still lurked at the back of his eyes, but fear no longer ruled.

"Thanks, that helped a lot," he said to Lisa, as he set her gently on the floor. She hugged him again, then remembered her shyness and fled back to her sister.

Annabell patted Johnny's knee. "Getting so wound up won't help Scott," she said mildly. "Try not to worry."

"Easy to say. Hard to do."

"At least, don't worry about the killer taking a second shot at Scott. Your Constable Wesley seems to have thought of that. We went to the hospital before coming here. They wouldn't let us in to see Scott, and there was a constable stationed in his room to guard him and to write down anything he might say." Annabell said.

"Doctor MacGregor sends his regards," Laura put in, hoping to cheer Johnny up. "He said for you to take care of yourself, and he'll take care of Scott. And he said, if you worry, it's a sign you don't trust him and he'll be mortally offended."

Laura's story was rewarded with a small smile, which encouraged her to try another.

"The doctor is so funny. Practically everyone's been to see Scott, everyone but Cousin Harlan, of course. My mother and father went, and Cousin Frederick, Cousin Gerald, even Cousin Gary and his mother went; but the doctor would only let us peek through the door. He wouldn't even let Dr. Fraser in. He said no one disturbs his patient. It was funny. Dr. Fraser said he was the family doctor and should be allowed to examine his patient. Dr. MacGregor said Scott was his patient until he or you said otherwise," the girl told Johnny. "Dr. Fraser started to argue, but Dr. MacGregor turned his back. He said," Laura dropped her voice as low as she could and attempted a cold Scottish accent. "'I've been arguin' wi' Garretts all morning. I'll no spend my afternoon arguin' wi' a runny-nosed upstart who claims to be a doctor.'"

Johnny chuckled. Annabell laughed ruefully.

"I shouldn't laugh at Dr. Fraser. — he saved Harlan's life after that awful heart attack — but the man is just so stuffy," she said.

"I like that Dr. MacGregor, and I guess I trust him, so what am I worrying about?" Johnny said, attempting gaiety that never touched his eyes.

"Maybe these will make you feel better," Annabell said.

The ladies gave him his presents, including his "Treasury of Fiction for Young Readers." Lisa gave him another hug goodbye and Laura pecked him demurely on the cheek. Annabell raised his chin and looked him squarely in the eye.

"I've known Scott a lot longer than you have, Johnny Lancer. I know he's a survivor. He'll be all right, you'll see."

The simple conviction in her voice did a lot to ease Johnny's fears.

"Thanks," he said.

"De nada," she replied, showing off her Spanish with a grin. "You know," she added as she was about to leave. "I think Hodges is right. You're much better than Chester Lee."

* * *

><p>When Powers let them out of the cellblock, Laura turned on him.<p>

"You're wrong about him," she said fiercely.

"I don't think so," Powers replied.

"He's not a killer! I don't care what anyone says!"

"Miss, if I thought he was a killer, do you think I would let three ladies into his cell alone?"

Laura was startled.

"Then why are you keeping him locked up?"

"Because a lot of people have been demanding that I keep him locked up, including your father."

"Daddy! Daddy wouldn't …" the girl's voice trailed into a whisper.

"He has," Powers said gently. "Maybe the others pressed him to it, though."

"Which others?" Annabell demanded. "The Desmonds?"

Powers nodded, "And Mrs. Winifred Masters and Mr. Frederick Garrett."

"Frederick! I can't believe …" But then she did. Better that the killer be Johnny, a stranger, than Gerald, his only surviving son.

Annabell felt sick as she hustled the children to the carriage. Just arriving, Wes held the door for them politely.

* * *

><p>"I haven't got much to report," he told his superior. "That is, I have a lot to tell you, but I don't know what any of it means."<p>

He told Powers about his interviews, ending with the Desmonds.

"Mrs. Desmond says she checked her son's room as soon as she heard the shot. I find that rather suspicious in itself. Why would she run to check on him? Anyway, she swears he was fast asleep, when she looked in on him.

"Even if she's telling the truth— which I doubt — the hall is short enough that anyone could have fired the shot from Johnny's room and gotten back to his own room before the rest woke up.

"The couples all alibi each other, but you know what that's worth. I don't see how we can find a killer without finding a motive first, and the only motives I see are the obvious ones."

"Johnny Lancer or Harlan Garrett — money, Gary Desmond — revenge, Gerald Garrett — jealousy," powers listed.

Wes nodded. "One thing worth asking about. Miss Annabell thought there was something about the fight at the club that Johnny and Scott weren't talking about."

"Hmm, I'd trust that lady's judgment. She's a sharp one," Powers remembered with admiration. "Let's go talk to Lancer again. I have to ask him about this telegram, anyway."

"What telegram?" Wes asked.

* * *

><p>CHIEF CONSTABLE, BOSTON CONSTABULARY<p>

ARRIVING FRIDAY WITH IMPORTANT EVIDENCE STOP SUGGEST YOU TALK TO JUSTIN MICHAELSON FOOTMAN FOR HARLAN GARRETT REGARDING OVERHEAD THREATS STOP TELL JOHNNY AM ON MY WAY STOP

MURDOCH LANCER

PROMONTORY POINT UTAH

* * *

><p>Johnny handed the telegram back to Powers. The prisoner leaned back against the wall and drew his feet up on the bunk. He relaxed, not completely, but perceptibly. He even managed a smile that the constables, both trained observers, believed was genuine.<p>

"I don't know what his evidence is, or why he's halfway here already when you only wired him this morning," Johnny said. "But I do know why Wes missed talking to Michaelson. The man's dead, killed in a street accident a week ago."

Powers' sense of order was outraged. "What the hell does that have to do with anything?" he complained.

"Don't ask me," Johnny replied. "I'm new in town."

"Curioser and curioser," Wes quoted under his breath.

* * *

><p>In the days that passed, everyone seemed to mark time, waiting for Murdoch's arrival.<p>

The constables heard Johnny's story of the fight at the club. For the first time learned that Gary Desmond had tried to shoot Scott in the back, a fact that Scott had wanted to keep from Harlan.

The story was easily confirmed by talking to the bartender, the club manager and half a dozen witnesses.

It made Gary the constable's prime suspect. They brought in Desmond for intense questioning. They hammered at him throughout the night, but he stubbornly clung to his simple story, that he was asleep when the shot was fired. Gary sweated a lot, but he didn't crack.

The constables couldn't keep him long without hard evidence. The Desmonds raised a stink, backed by the mayor whose campaign they had supported heavily.

They got Gary released, but had less success with their crusade to bring formal charges against Johnny. Pressure from the mayor's office was countered by pressure to free Johnny that came from the governor. The Boston mayor and the Massachusetts governor had never gotten along. Soon the politicians were squabbling with each other, leaving the constables pretty much alone.

Powers was grateful for the peace, but it roused his insatiable curiosity. He couldn't figure out how the governor came into it, until Johnny opined that it might be another of Murdoch's telegrams paying fruit. Murdoch was a good friend of the lieutenant governor of California.

* * *

><p>While Johnny languished and anguished in the jail, Scott's fever soared. Worried, Dr. MacGregor spent two sleepless nights at the bedside of his experimental patient, draining the suppurating wound and fighting the fever with cold packs.<p>

The patient teetered on a knife-edge for three days, until his fever finally broke late Thursday.

Scott fell into a deep, healing sleep, which example the satisfied MacGregor quickly followed.

* * *

><p>Murdoch bided his time, having set as much in motion as possible. Willing the ground to rush past faster, he stared out the window and fingered the letter he hoped would catch an attempted murderer.<p>

* * *

><p>On Friday morning, Wes was getting ready to go meet Murdoch's train, when a young Negro entered the jail.<p>

"Mr. Wesley?" he guessed correctly. "Dr. MacGregor sent me to fetch you, sir."

"Now?"

"Immediately, he said, sir." MacGregor's servant flashed a grin. "I'd mortally hate to go back without you."

"I don't blame you," Wes said, remembering the doctor's stony behavior to him. "I'd hate to have him angry with me."

"Yes sir! He can be a Tartar," the Negro agreed, but not as if he really minded.

"Well, boss?" Wes asked Powers.

"Go," Powers answered. "Lancer will turn up."

Wes went.

* * *

><p>Murdoch was off the train before it stopped moving, looking for the lawyer his Stockton attorney had telegraphed. A neatly groomed young man in a conservative, gray pinstripe suit, stepped forward.<p>

"Mr. Lancer?"

Murdoch took the hand the lawyer extended.

"Jarrod said you'd be on this train, sir," the young man said. "Judge Abbott is expecting us. We can go now, if that's all right with you?"

Murdoch hesitated, the acquiesced. Truth to tell, he was glad to have his mind made up for him. He'd been torn, wondering which son to see to first.

Like Johnny, his heart ached to be with Scott, but he knew there was nothing he could do at the hospital. If he freed Johnny, they could go to the hospital together.

He let the lawyer, Todd Wingate, lead the way.

* * *

><p><strong>Boston City Hospital<strong>

"You wanted to see me, doctor?"

MacGregor looked up from his desk impatiently.

"No, you wanted to see my patient, didn't you?"

Wes brightened. "Is Scott awake?"

"He was when I sent for you," MacGregor said pointedly. He relented at Wes' crestfallen expression. The doctor had gone through a hard week, but he'd had a very good day. Now that his experiment had proved itself a success, he was willing to forgive Wes his past offenses.

"He will not sleep long," the doctor said. "I saw him earlier, only for a few seconds, just long enough to be sure he understood his condition. I reassured him that his grandfather was all right and informed him that someone had tried to kill him. I think he remembered that. He nodded and didn't seem to be surprised.

"He is very weak and he will not stay awake for long at a time. If he falls asleep, even in the middle of a word, don't worry about it and … don't … wake … him … up!"

MacGregor shook his finger at the constable, emphasizing the last point.

Wes raised his hands in protest.

"Scott Lancer's a friend of mine, doctor. The last thing I want to do is hurt him."

MacGregor nodded once in agreement, then showed Wes out of his office. The constable went gladly, feeling lighter than he had for a week.

* * *

><p>The sight of Scott, so pale and so still in the darkened room, reduced his euphoria to a more manageable level. But he relied on MacGregor's assurance that his old friend would be all right.<p>

Wes dismissed the constable on duty in Scott's room and settled himself for a long wait. It wasn't ten minutes when, without another movement, Scott opened his eyes. He stared up at the ceiling blankly, until sluggish memory prodded awareness into his eyes. He raised an arm to rub his tired eyes, but let it drop with a gasp, the gesture incomplete. The stab of pain cleared his mind, however.

Scott let his gaze wander around the room until, inevitably, it fell on Wes who was leaning forward eagerly, but remaining silent as ordered.

Scott swallowed and, in a voice thick with cobwebs, whispered his friend's name.

"Scott, how do you feel?" Wes asked gently.

"Pretty bad," Scott confessed. He'd cleared away some of the cobwebs, but his long-disused voice was still hesitant.

Scott's eyes continued to roam restlessly around the room, gradually taking on a worried air.

"Wes," he said, before the constable could remove the lump from his throat. "Where's Johnny?"

Wes looked away. How could he tell Scott that Johnny was under arrest on his orders. He hesitated and was shocked by the bleak look that swept into Scott's eyes.

"Is … is he dead?" Scott asked, closing his eyes as if afraid to look on the answer.

"My God, Scott! No!" His shocked sincerity was unquestionable.

The fear went out of Scott's eyes, but puzzlement remained.

"Why would you think he's dead?" Wes asked, his investigative instincts getting the best of him.

Scott had to laugh, however much it hurt. In twelve years, Wes the Curious hadn't changed a speck.

"Well, why?" Wes challenged smiling.

Scott took his time with his answers. It was hard work.

"Because Johnny would be here if he could." he began with absolute certainty. "Because he would have tried to help me when I was shot, and he wasn't armed. And because you're afraid to tell me where he is." He tossed the challenge back at his friend.

Wes stuck on an earlier point.

"What do you mean, he wasn't armed? Are you sure?"

Scott lay back, his strength already fading.

"Of course, I'm sure. I saw it upstairs when we went down."

"You're sure he couldn't have taken it with him?"

"And kept it in his pocket all during breakfast?" Scott said scornfully. "Wes, did you think Johnny shot me?"

"Yes," the constable answered simply.

"You have him in jail?" Scott was fading, but fighting it.

"Uh huh."

Scott shook his head gently. "The shot came from upstairs. Couldn't see who, Sun shining on the windows. Wasn't Johnny. He was in the dining room. Want me to swear?"

There was the ghost of a smile on his pale face.

"I think we can take the victim's word," Wes said lightly.

"Good," Scott breathed. "Johnny hates to be cooped up."

The patient's eyes closed against his will.

"I'll take care of it," Wes promised quietly, though he knew Scott was already asleep.

He didn't move for a while. He sat watching Scott's breathing even out in slumber. Wes was glad his last, lingering doubts about Johnny had been set to rest. He was glad they finally had a concrete piece in this slippery puzzle.

He wondered whether Murdoch's evidence would add another solid piece, or just send them chasing white rabbits.

Just as he decided there was no point wondering when he could go see for himself, he heard the door creak open behind him.

"Shh, he's asleep," Wes warned softly, without turning.

A gasp answered him. The constable jumped and turned, to see the door swinging shut. He dashed out and stepped on something soft that skidded out from under his foot. He saved his head from hitting the polished wooden floor, but the jar made his teeth clash and his muscles ache. By the time he retrieved his jarred wits and looked around, the hall was empty.

Wes lifted his protesting body to its feet and picked up the cause of his downfall. He looked at the object that the mysterious intruder must have dropped. His blood chilled.

He had never realized that a fluffy pillow could look so ominous.

**To Be Continued**


	13. Family Reunion

**Lancer 13: Family Reunion**

When Mark Powers was a child, a friend had found a fox cub trapped by a fallen branch. The boy had taken home the fox cub and lavished attention on it, but it pined for freedom. It didn't sleep, wouldn't eat and eventually died.

Until that morning, Johnny had reminded him of that fox cub. Unable to sleep, with no appetite for food, Johnny had presented a woebegone aspect that had worried the chief constable.

But now, the tension was gone from Johnny's face. Though his eyes still showed dark circles, stark against too-pale skin, the younger Lancer was shoveling down eggs as fast as he could swallow.

"You look pleased this morning," Powers said.

"Why not?" Johnny replied. "MacGregor says Scott is going to be all right, and I'm getting out of here today — no offense to your hospitality.

Powers snapped a tiny bow.

"None taken, sir," he replied. "You seem pretty confident. What makes you think you're leaving my establishment. Not that I wouldn't be glad to see you go — no offense."

"None taken," Johnny said, with a nod of his head.

Before he could actually answer the chief constable's question, a bellow sounded from the outer office.

"Constable!"

If Powers hadn't been looking at his prisoner, he wouldn't have believed the change. Johnny's small, tired smile burst into a sunny grin and those eyes, which looked so dangerous whenever Johnny thought about the person who shot Scott, took on an eager, yet embarrassed, expression.

"Now you're in for it," the former gunfighter said softly, with anticipation.

"Why?" Powers asked in amusement.

"'Cause that's my old man out there," Johnny said proudly.

When Powers stepped out of the cellblock, he learned why Johnny had been confident of getting out of jail as soon as his father arrived. Murdoch Lancer was an efficient man.

The lawyer, Wingate, had a writ of habeas corpus signed by Judge Abbott, ordering that Johnny either be released or brought before the judge for arraignment. Powers read the papers carefully.

"We demand that you release John Lancer immediately," Wingate said sternly.

"Gentlemen, it will be my pleasure," powers said sincerely, which wasn't the reaction the others expected.

Powers took the keys and ushered the pair into the cellblock. Johnny was lounging against the bars as they approached.

"Murdoch," was all he said, but the look father and son exchanged said everything they needed.

Johnny's sorry shape told Murdoch more about Scott's condition than any telegram could have, but Johnny's casual greeting eased that stab of fear.

Wingate took one look at Johnny and rounded on Powers, demanding to know whether it was his habit to abuse prisoners.

Powers' temper flared. Johnny moved to defend his captors. Wes stepped blithely through the door.

"You can let Johnny out now," he said. Seeing the tableau in the cellblock, he added, "Oh, you're already out. Fast work, Mark."

"What are you babbling about," Powers growled. "Mr. Lancer brought a writ, so of course I let Johnny out."

"Mr. Lancer! I'm pleased to meet you, sir!" Wes said happily, grabbing Murdoch's hand. To Powers he said, "You don't have to worry about the writ. I've got something better."

"And that is …?" the lawyer asked tartly.

"That is eyewitness testimony clearing Johnny," Wes said, trying to control the effervescence that bubbled up whenever he remembered Scott was going to be all right.

"What eyewitness?" Wingate asked curiously.

"Why the victim, of course," Wes answered.

"You mean Scott …" Johnny started eagerly.

"He was awake and lucid," Wes said, answering the question before it was asked. "He's easily tired, of course, but he sounded his usual self."

Johnny whooped and pounded Murdoch's shoulder.

"Come on, Murdoch, we've got to go see him," he said.

"There's one thing, though." Wes interrupted their departure, fully serious for the first time. "I think someone tried to kill him again while I was there."

He explained what had happened and added that he had posted a guard outside Scott's room. Now that Scott was recovering, MacGregor wouldn't allow a guard inside the room where he might disturb the patient.

"Scott may be recovering, but it seems someone wants to prevent that," Powers said. He took charge, herding the others into his office. "I believe you have some evidence for us, Mr. Lancer. I know you want to see your son, but the sooner we get to work on this, the better. It's obvious this case isn't over."

* * *

><p>Though he was brimming with curiosity, the young lawyer politely accepted Murdoch's thanks and left for other appointments.<p>

Johnny, Wes and Powers took turns reading the letter, as they filled Murdoch in on the investigation. Finally they set the letter on Powers' desk. They crouched around it to pick it apart, like lions around their kill.

"Michaelson thought these people were talking about killing Harlan, because he had fallen ill," Powers surmised.

"And Michaelson died before he could talk to Scott," Wes said.

"A 'convenient' accident," Johnny commented. His chin resting on his folded hands, he studied the letter at eye level as if that would give him a new perspective.

"But it was Scott they tried to shoot, and to smother," Wes protested.

"Could we have two murder conspiracies?" Powers speculated.

"I've had my differences with the Garrett family, constable," Murdoch said mildly. "But I find it hard to believe there would be that many killers among Scott's relatives."

"OK, then maybe Michaelson misunderstood what he heard. Maybe his death was an accident. They do happen," Powers said, but not as if he believed it. "But the trouble with that is the mysterious way Michaelson died. No one knew why he was in town. No one even knew he was gone until we reported his death. Everyone agrees it wasn't like him to sneak away."

"So he probably sneaked out to report what he heard to you guys," Johnny said reasonably. "He said in the letter he couldn't trust anyone in the house."

Wes sighed. "That makes his death a pretty tough coincidence to swallow."

"And don't forget, someone intercepted my telegram to Scott," Murdoch added. "Someone didn't want Scott to hear about Michaelson's letter."

"So there was no coincidence. Michaelson was killed because of what he knew. And what he thought he knew was that someone was trying to kill Harlan Garrett," Powers summed up.

"But Harlan Garrett's alive and getting better," Wes said.

"… And Scott's the one who got shot," Johnny finished for him.

The four men looked at each other.

"I don't know about the rest of you, but I'm more confused than ever," the chief constable admitted.

"It just doesn't make sense," Wes complained.

"It makes sense to someone," Murdoch corrected.

"I guess we have to start over. Question everyone all over again in light of this new evidence," Powers sighed.

The prospect looked bleak.

"Maybe not," Murdoch said. "There's one person you haven't talked to."

Their minds on suspects, the constables looked blank for a moment, but Johnny followed his father easily. His thoughts kept drifting in that direction anyway.

"You think Scott knows something, Murdoch?" he asked.

"It seems to me that the victim is always the key to a murder attempt, Johnny. Your brother's no fool. Better than anyone, he ought to know who would have a motive to kill him."

"Then let's go ask him," Johnny declared. He bounded from his seat, then stopped. "I want my gun back, Wes," he said.

"You can't have it. It's evidence," Powers said immediately.

"Then how about Scott's gun. I know you confiscated it and brought it here."

"You don't need a gun, Johnny," Wes said.

"That's what you said before," Johnny said flatly, with what Murdoch identified as his Johnny Madrid stare. "Someone out there is gunning for my brother and I'm not leaving here without that gun."

"You could deputize us, constable," Murdoch suggested, before his youngest son could get himself thrown back into jail. The elder Lancer hadn't removed his gun belt and made it clear he wasn't about to.

Powers saw that he'd have to lock them up to get their guns, and he was tired of Lancers cluttering up his jail.

"Get it," he told Wes. "You two, repeat after me …"

* * *

><p>"I absolutely forbid it," Dr. MacGregor stated flatly. "You will not question him today. It would be too strenuous. Perhaps, perhaps, I will permit you to talk to him tomorrow, if he's up to it. Mr. Lancer, you don't realize just how near Scott was to death. A few years ago, without the modern equipment we have today …"<p>

Johnny slipped out of the room unnoticed, leaving Murdoch and the constables to MacGregor's lecture.

The Westerner didn't want to question Scott. He just wanted to see him, to wipe away the image of Scott on the operating table, to wipe away the feel of his brother's blood on his hands.

The constable at the door recognized Johnny — he'd hauled the Californian around often enough. The man raised his eyebrows at the badge Johnny showed. However, since he knew Johnny wasn't the one who tried to smother Scott, because he himself had bundled Johnny into the cell at the Constabulary Office, the constable let the younger Lancer into the room.

* * *

><p>Johnny tiptoed in, careful not to wake his brother. Scarcely daring to breathe, he looked down on the still form of the Easterner who had earned his respect and his affection so surprisingly three years before.<p>

The Boston-bred Lancer lay still, pale and bound in bandages, not so different from the last time Johnny had seen him. But to the younger brother, there was a world of difference in the color in Scott's face and the serenity of his expression.

Seeing Scott so, set alight a war of emotions in Johnny. The old conflict — Johnny Madrid vs. Johnny Lancer — reared its head again. The Lancer part felt a peaceful sort of joy that Scott was alive and going to be well again. It relaxed all the fears that, for the past week, had kept him prisoner more surely than the constable's jail cell.

Johnny's Madrid half wasn't buying any of this snake oil. The person who'd bushwhacked his brother was still roaming free, eager to try again. There'd be time for peace after the killer was brought to justice — one way or another. Johnny fingered the butt of Scott's gun and settled its weight on his thigh.

With practiced techniques, Johnny cooled the fiery Madrid temper until there was just a faint ember left. The ember glowed with red-hot hatred for the person who'd shot Scott, but it was buried deep, out of the way. Hot anger could blind a man, and a blind gunfighter was as good as dead. A professional gunfighter kept anger far away, using it only as a spur to sudden action. Johnny Madrid was always professional.

His expression unflinching and implacable, Johnny pulled a chair up to the bedside. It scraped faintly on the floor.

Scott stirred, then winced at the pain the movement caused him. He gasped, and the sudden breathe hurt as much as the movement.

"Whoa, Scott. Easy."

All trace of the loner Johnny Madrid vanished in an instant. Johnny Lancer extended a restraining hand to keep his brother from hurting himself.

"Lie still, Scott. Don't thrash around so much."

The patient obeyed instructions without opening his eyes.

"J … Johnny?" It was a breath of sound.

"Sure, who else?"

Scott forced his eyes open and saw Johnny's shy, sweet smile. The injured man drank in the sight, in a long draught, then a return grin grew on Scott's pale face.

"You sound like you're quieting a horse caught in barbed wire," he said in a weak but game voice.

"Sorry."

"S'all right," Scott moved a fraction and winced again. "I feel like a colt caught in barbed wire. Every way I move it hurts." Scott looked directly into Johnny's ice blue eyes. "You had me scared, brother," he said seriously.

"It was your turn," Johnny replied. It was almost a joke. He tried again. "Thanks for clearing me."

"De nada."

Scott raised his hand. Johnny enfolded it with both of his, then rested his chin on the triple fist for good measure. He grinned comically at Scott, who laughed at the lazy picture his brother presented.

For a while they were content with a companionable silence. Scott's eyes closed because it was too much work to keep them open, but Johnny knew he wasn't asleep.

"Murdoch's here," Johnny finally thought to say.

Scott's brow furrowed. "So soon? Or has it been longer than I thought?"

Johnny shook his head. "No, he was already on his way when you were shot."

Scott's eyes asked an encyclopedia of questions, but Johnny waved them away.

"Not today, brother. Doctor's orders. We'll tell you all about it tomorrow. Promise."

Scott nodded, curiosity overwhelmed by a rising tide of pain. His last does of laudanum was wearing off fast. He swallowed convulsively.

"Scott?" Johnny was concerned.

Scott squeezed his hand, but his grip was so weak, it wasn't much reassurance. Johnny gently placed Scott's hand on the blankets and went to get the painkiller. A veteran of gunshot wounds, he recognized the kind of pain Scott was fighting. He knew what to do about it: a little laudanum for the pain and a distraction for the mind. He started to tell about Murdoch rescuing him from the jail.

* * *

><p>When Murdoch came hunting his youngest son, he found Johnny fast asleep, his head pillowed on his arms on the side on Scott's bed.<p>

Scott was awake, though, smiling the most contented smile Murdoch had ever seen on the victim of a murder attempt.

Scott was floating on a bubble of painkiller and happiness. Why not? With the pain reduced to a dull ache, he had been reflecting on life and finding renewed existence good. He was alive. His grandfather was alive. Johnny was alive and out of jail. Murdoch was here and on the warpath. Everything was as it should be.

Murdoch crossed to the bed and took the hand Scott extended.

"Scott." His voice choked off. He bent his head, cleared his throat and continued. "How do you feel, son?"

"I've never been worse," Scott admitted, with a disarming smile. "Looks like I'll survive, though."

"Of course you will." Murdoch squeezed Scott's hand gently, then grinned wryly. "But Johnny and I might not, if Dr. MacGregor catches us in here. He said you need to rest."

Scott assessed Johnny's ragged appearance and Murdoch's travel weary visage, and said, "You'll forgive me for saying so, sir, but the two of you look as if you need it more than I do."

Without raising his head from his arms, Johnny, who had awakened at Murdoch's entrance, said, "He has a point Murdoch. Let's go back to the house and get some sleep."

The tender expression on Murdoch's face curdled, though he fought it.

"I wouldn't want to put anyone out. I'll just take a room at a hotel," he said casually, but he couldn't hide his distaste from Scott. The elder son made no comment on the evasion.

Tact was never Johnny's long suit. He sat up and looked at Murdoch in bewilderment.

"Put anyone out? Murdoch, there must be twenty bedrooms in that house!"

"Let it alone, Johnny," Scott warned, but he turned away from Murdoch, so his father wouldn't see the disappointment in his eyes.

Johnny subsided, finally remembering that Murdoch and Harlan had fought an emotional war for thirty years, since before Scott was born. Johnny realized Murdoch hadn't been a party to the truce he and Harlan had declared.

Seeing Scott turn away, changed the shape of the battlefield for Murdoch. He couldn't bear to add to his son's burden of pain. He gently touched Scott's shoulder, until his son turned back.

"It would make you happier if Harlan and I could get along, wouldn't it?"

"Yes sir," Scott admitted. "But I don't have any right …"

"No, you have every right," Murdoch interrupted. "It's your life we've played tug-o-war with for twenty-five years. You have every right …"

He couldn't continue. He and Harlan had come to an understanding at their last meeting, but thirty years of hatred and pain died harder than Murdoch had expected. He was ashamed he couldn't put aside the past for the sake of his son.

"Murdoch, you don't have to …" Scott started.

"I do have to. I have to try, anyway," Murdoch contradicted. He paused, then gave Scott a faint smile. "But I have to confess, I like Harlan better when there's three thousand miles between us."

Murdoch told Scott to get some sleep, because they planned a busy day for tomorrow, then he left the room. Johnny lingered in the doorway.

"Scott, something's been biting at me."

Scott looked at him questioningly.

"Who's Chester Lee?" the younger brother blurted out.

Scott laughed, which hurt. He tried to suppress the laugh, which hurt more. He gasped for breath, then Johnny was at his side, helping him sip from a glass of water.

"Stepped in it again, didn't I?" Johnny said ruefully, as Scott caught his breath.

Scott punched his brother's side in denial.

"Chester Lee was a figment of my childish imagination," Scott said. "He was my playmate, my best friend …"

"Your brother?" Johnny asked, the light dawning.

Scott nodded. "For all your faults, Johnny, you're a little better than an imaginary friend."

Johnny carefully whacked his brother's knee with his hat, then followed Murdoch out the door. Both brothers chuckled for a long while.

* * *

><p>The Lancers left their hired buggy at the Garrett stable. Random promised to have Jeff return it to the livery stable.<p>

"Thank you, Mr. Random," Murdoch said wearily. The strain of the long trip and the worry was beginning to tell on him.

Random and Johnny exchanged a look behind Murdoch's back. Random's leathery face creased in an "I told you so" smile. Johnny winked and chased after his father.

He guided Murdoch through the half-repaired, trampled garden and into the back door as if he'd lived in the big Boston house all his life. Murdoch held out his hand to stop the informal entrance, but when Johnny didn't stop, Murdoch had no choice but to follow.

As his father stood by uncomfortably, Johnny received a floury hug from Mrs. Hodges and a hero's welcome from the rest of the Garrett staff, who had a thousand questions to ask.

Laughing, Johnny shouted them down, told them what had happened, gave a progress report on Scott and introduced his father, all in one breath.

Belatedly recognizing Murdoch's presence, the staff formed up and greeted him with proper formality.

"Mr. Garrett will be glad to see you, Mr. Lancer," Hodges said with every evidence of sincerity.

Murdoch was surprised. Hodges had once been ordered to never let Murdoch set foot in the house again.

"We'd better go see him," Johnny told Hodges.

Murdoch rubbed his eyes and wondered what score Johnny was trying to settle. He could have sworn his youngest son liked him. Why was Johnny so anxious to bring Murdoch before his enemy.


	14. Family Plot

**Lancer 14: Family Plot**

Sensing his father's uneasiness, Johnny touched his arm. "Murdoch, trust me."

Murdoch flung an arm around Johnny's shoulders and yanked his son close; then he freed the young man; but, feeling the need for physical contact, he kept one hand on Johnny's shoulder.

Johnny blithely followed on Hodges' heels, not giving the butler a chance to announce them. Harlan was surprised to see them. It was an even bigger surprise to Murdoch to see how Harlan's eyes lit up at the sight of Johnny.

"My boy, are you all right?" Harlan greeted him, holding out his hand. "How's Scotty?"

Johnny sat familiarly on the side of the bed.

"Scott's doing fine, Harlan. He's awake, and worried about you."

"How did you get free?"

"Scott told them I didn't shoot him, so here I am."

"I'm glad," Harlan said sincerely. "I told them you didn't do it, but the constable said my opinion wasn't evidence."

His curiosity satisfied, Harlan turned his attention to his other visitor who stool, granite-faced, in the doorway next to Hodges who had not been dismissed.

"Come in, Murdoch," Harlan said without warmth.

Harlan's improvement in health had brought back some of his imperious nature. To Murdoch, he looked like the same old adversary.

"You're looking well, Harlan. Better than I was led to expect," he said.

"I see you came running to your son's aid," Harlan said.

"Both my sons," Murdoch stated firmly.

"Of course."

Silence descended like a brick. There was once a time when they would have torn at each other with words as sharp as the pain each one felt. That time, by silent agreement, was past. Now they chose to go by the ancient wisdom, "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all." The silence grew uncomfortable as the men regarded each other.

Johnny closed his eyes in a short prayer for strength.

"Murdoch needs a place to stay, Harlan. I told him you had plenty of rooms."

Johnny's attitude defied either of his elders to deny him.

Murdoch looked away. Harlan blinked.

"Of course," he said with conventional politeness. "Hodges, show Mr. Lancer to the …" Harlan started to say one thing, hesitated, then decided and finished quickly before he could change his mind "… the blue room."

"Sir?" The best measure of Hodges' astonishment was that he showed it.

"You heard me," Harlan said gruffly.

Hodges showed the Lancers to the door of a room across the hall from Scott's.

"I'll have to get Dulcie to make up the bed," the butler said. "No one …" Hodges paused. There was a funny sort of fearful anticipation in his manner. "No one has ever slept here," he said, as he swung the door open for them.

Puzzled, the Lancers stepped inside. Murdoch stopped as if he'd been struck. Johnny drew in a long breath, searching the room with his eyes. Hodges quietly closed the door behind them.

* * *

><p>Between the twin windows was a full-sized portrait in oils. The rest of the walls were covered with sketches, watercolors and photographs — all of Scott's mother at various ages.<p>

It wasn't her room. Johnny knew the house had been under construction when she and Murdoch eloped. It was almost a shrine, built by Harlan in Katherine's memory. But that wasn't right, either. The room was too homey for a shrine. There were trinkets on a battered, but lovingly polished, dressing table, and an inexpertly sewn quilt, just a trifle lopsided, blanketing the bed.

"It's a school room," Murdoch said. "For Scott."

Johnny knew he was right. It was a tribute to Katherine, but most of all it was a lesson in what she was like, which was dedicated to her son. Johnny realized that letting Murdoch have this room was a major gesture of reconciliation on Harlan's part.

Murdoch fingered the quilt. A sad smile relaxed the tension on his features.

"She made this for Harlan. Sent it to him at Christmas with a note begging for his forgiveness."

He crossed to the dressing table and picked up an oval music box made of carved maple. It began to play when he opened it. Inside the lid was a photograph from their wedding.

"This was my present to her that Christmas, our only Christmas," he continued. "It's one of the few things she took with her when I sent her away from the ranch for her safety — for her safety." The irony had lost some of its sting, but not all.

Murdoch shut the lid with restraint, as if he really wanted to slam it, but couldn't bear to. He went to stand in front of the painting, which showed Katherine just a year younger than when he'd met her.

Johnny sidled out of the room and left his father to his memories.

* * *

><p>The Lancers slept late the next day, making up for the sleep they'd lost the previous week.<p>

Once up, though, they hurried through breakfast and rushed over to the hospital. They might as well have taken their time. MacGregor told the Lancers, as he had told the constables before them, that Scott had passed a restless night and couldn't be questioned until the afternoon, if then.

* * *

><p>Stymied, they went to the Constabulary, where they found Wes and Powers talking to the boy who had delivered the telegram.<p>

The two "deputies" were beckoned into the chief constable's office.

"But I didn't really notice, sirs," the boy was saying when they entered. "It was late, getting dark, and I was thinking about getting home to dinner. All I really remember is he was a lousy tipper. And I only remember that because Mr. Hanson told me to wait for a reply, but the man didn't want to send one."

"Any description would help, son," Powers said gently. "Try to remember. This is a case of murder we're talking about."

"Gosh! Wait'll I tell the fellows!" the urchin exclaimed, his eyes as wide as silver dollars. "He squeezed his eyes shut, the better to concentrate. Finally he sighed. "Well, he was about your age, your height, too, sir," he said, nodding at Wes. "It's hard to tell for sure, because he was on the steps, but he was definitely taller than this gentleman," the boy gestured at Johnny. "I don't know how to describe him, but I might know him again if I saw him, especially if I heard his voice."

"How about his hair — light or dark?" Wes asked.

"I'd guess dark," the boy said uncertainly.

"Eyes?" The boy just shook his head.

"Anything special about his features? Big nose? Ears stick out?"

The boy continued to shake his head. "Sorry, sir, I didn't know it was going to be important," he said with disappointment.

"No, of course you didn't," Powers said with resignation. "If you think of anything else, be sure to tell us about it," he added, handing the boy a coin.

"Yes sir!" the youngster exclaimed, accepting additional largess from Murdoch.

He scampered to the door, having made a fair profit on what had seemed an unprofitable delivery.

"You heard most of that," Powers told the Lancers after the boy left. "The man who signed for your telegram met the boy on the steps, never gave him the chance to ring the bell. Must have seen him coming."

He gave the approximate time of the delivery and looked inquiringly at Johnny, who racked his brain to remember that evening.

"Could have been anyone," he answered finally, repeating a phrase that Powers was getting tired of hearing. "Scott and I were upstairs with Harlan. The rest were gathering in the front room, which looks out on the street. Anyone could have stepped out for a minute."

"Well, if the boy's description is accurate, it lets out the women and Frederick Garrett. That leaves Mortimer and Gerald Garrett, Richard Desmond — he looks youthful for his age, especially in a bad light; dyes his hair, I'd bet — and his son, Gary," Wes enumerated.

"No, Gary's out," Johnny said reluctantly. "He's no taller than I am, remember?" Johnny and Sam Goldberg had reason to remember that.

"Damn! I forgot," Wes swore. "There goes our prime suspect. I'd have really liked it to be Garrett Desmond," he said wistfully.

Johnny nodded in agreement.

"Don't give up hope, yet," Powers said dryly. "Remember, Michaelson said at least two people were involved."

Wes and Johnny brightened at the thought.

* * *

><p>The day passed slowly for the Lancers.<p>

Johnny got in some practice with Scott's gun, using makeshift targets set up in a yard behind the constabulary. He had used the gun before. The former professional gunfighter was still paranoid enough to practice with every weapon on the ranch, just in case of emergency. Scott's pistol wasn't as familiar as his own, but it would do, Johnny decided, as he blew down six empty bottles from the saloon down the street.

Wes watched in open-mouthed astonishment. He'd always thought the tales about Western fast draws and Western shooting were mere exaggeration.

Murdoch shook his head. "You're slow, Johnny," he said, adding to Wes' astonishment.

"A mite," Johnny admitted. "Scott's holster doesn't sit the same way mine does. Don't figure I'll run into anyone faster, though, not in these parts. Accuracy is what's going to count here."

Murdoch nodded. "You don't have much problem there. Same make of gun, and close to the same trigger pull." The elder Lancer had also tried every weapon on the ranch.

Johnny grinned. "Must run in the family," he said, for Murdoch's usual pistol handled much the same as his own and Scott's.

* * *

><p>Target practice couldn't last forever. Back in the office, the Lancers and the constables discussed the case, getting nowhere.<p>

When that tired topic was exhausted, Powers began to catch up on his paperwork. Wes did chores around the building. Murdoch began to tell Johnny what had happened on the ranch in his absence.

The ranch discussion didn't last long either. It was surprising to Johnny to realize he'd been away from Lancer for just two weeks. It seemed like a lifetime.

He shook away the thought. Determined to make the time pass, Johnny began to tell Murdoch, in detail, about his trip East and the day he and Scott had spent in Boston.

Somehow, time passed. Mid-afternoon arrived. The four men left for the hospital.

* * *

><p>The investigators found MacGregor still reluctant to let them enter.<p>

"I don't know." He shook his head in ponderous uncertainty. "He's still a very ill lad. He needs rest and quiet. He doesn't need to be badgered by unfeeling officers of the law."

He looked pointedly at Wes, who still hadn't been forgiven for arresting Johnny in MacGregor's own operating room.

It was Johnny who confronted the doctor.

"Do you think Murdoch and I would do anything to hurt Scott?" he asked angrily.

The surgeon regarded his volunteer blood donor fondly.

"Not deliberately, lad," he said softly. "But it could be dangerous for your brother to get overexcited or overtired."

"It's also dangerous to let a murderer walk around free," Murdoch said seriously.

"I know. I know," MacGregor said, torn between his responsibilities as a doctor and as a citizen.

"Suppose we handle it this way," Powers said. "Suppose we don't ask Scott any questions. We'll do all the talking ourselves. We'll go over everything we know and let Scott contribute whenever he has a thought."

"Well …" said MacGregor, his resolve wavering.

"And, of course, you can be present, doctor," Powers added hastily.

MacGregor pondered the proposition.

"What does Scott have to say about it, Doc?" Johnny asked slyly.

MacGregor chuckled.

"He asked why you hadn't been to see him, yet," the doctor confessed.

He agreed to Powers' terms.

When the five men entered Scott's room, the patient looked so pale and drawn, Murdoch was afraid MacGregor had been right. But the sight of the visitors brightened Scott's countenance, so MacGregor knew he had been wrong.

Scott relaxed, restlessness forgotten, as the chief constable gave him his orders. Seeing his patient obediently settle into his pillow, MacGregor realized that the uncertainty had been wearing on Scott as much as his wound.

Scott listened carefully to the information Wes had gathered, though most of it was old news to him. He'd known most of the people involved longer than he'd known his father and brother.

The wounded man didn't make many interruptions. He only added his perceptions of the evening, the people and the shooting. Still, Wes' recitation took two hours and the stories told by Johnny and Murdoch added to the time. Dusk had arrived by the time Scott was thoroughly briefed.

The long period of attentiveness had taken its toll. Scott looked limp and white. His eyes were squeezed shut, but not in concentration.

MacGregor moved to take Scott's pulse.

"We could continue this tomorrow," he suggested.

The others started to move, but Scott shook his head and they subsided.

"Just a little longer?" Scott begged. "There's something … something that doesn't make sense."

MacGregor didn't assent in so many words, but he gave Scott a dose of laudanum and went back to his seat.

"If the killers intercepted the telegram and knew Murdoch was suspicious, why did they go through with the shooting?" Scott said slowly and carefully.

The others considered.

"We know there's more than one person involved," Wes said finally. "Maybe the one who intercepted the telegram didn't have a chance to tell the other one about it."

"They had all night!" Johnny protested. "More likely, they thought the police would ignore the evidence of an 'illiterate Western barbarian'," he added, quoting one of the comments Winifred had made under her breath, thinking Johnny couldn't hear her.

"They ignored it out of contempt?" Powers considered the idea. "It does seem to fit the prevailing attitude. It's possible, but I'd like to go back to the motive for a moment. I'd like to find a concrete reason for someone to try to kill you, Scott. All this jealousy and hatred stuff is fine, but they're the sorts of motives that lead to unpremeditated attacks, not carefully considered murder conspiracies. Tell me, Scott, what would have happened if you'd died?"

"The trust fund would have reverted to grandfather. My share of the ranch would go back to the partnership. My will leaves a few tokens to people, including you, Wes, but the residue would go to Murdoch and Johnny."

"Is this where I'm supposed to confess?" Johnny sighed.

The others laughed obligingly.

"What would happen to the trust fund?" Powers pressed.

Scott was silent for a long moment.

"In my will I asked grandfather to make it over to Mort's kids an Mary's kids," he said with reluctance. "They need it the most."

"There's a concrete motive," Murdoch said.

"Except for one thing, they don't know about it," Scott said firmly.

"Are you sure?" Powers asked.

"Yes. I didn't know if grandfather would honor my request. I wouldn't want to get anyone's hopes up for nothing. Besides, I didn't intend to die until the kids were too old to need my money."

"Does anybody else know about the will?" Powers asked.

"Nobody," Scott said firmly. "Annabell knew about my will once, but I've changed it since then. No one else knows."

"That's true enough, constable," Murdoch said. "I know Scott has a will, because there's a copy in the safe at Lancer. But I never asked about the contents, and he never said."

"It always seemed like a morbid form of bragging," Scott said weakly.

"There goes the concrete motive," Wes sighed.

There was a long silence in the hospital room. Johnny broke it.

"Maybe we're asking the wrong question," he mused.

"What do you mean, son?" Murdoch asked.

"Well, Mark asked, 'what would happen if Scott died?' Maybe the question should be, 'what wouldn't happen?'" The youngest Lancer looked at blank stares all around, and shrugged. "Maybe not."

Powers turned the new question over in his mind.

"If Scott died, what wouldn't happen?" he said.

Scott inhaled sharply, and then let it out in a long sigh of sudden enlightenment.

"What wouldn't happen is that I wouldn't be around to inherit grandfather's money," he said, with the certainty of a man placing the final piece of a jigsaw puzzle.

"Yes!" Wes said softly.

"You couldn't ask for a more concrete motive than a couple million dollars," Murdoch said wryly.

"But who would it go to?" Powers asked.

Everyone looked at Scott. He shook his head. One revelation per day was his limit.

"Don't know," he said. "As far as I go, grandfather never made any provisions…" Scott stopped to catch his breath, and then went on more slowly. "When I joined the cavalry, grandfather's lawyer and I tried to get him to name an alternate heir, just in case. But he refused to consider it. He got angry when we pressed him."

"As if by ignoring the possibility, he could prevent it," Murdoch said softly.

Scott nodded.

"Who are the most likely candidates, then?" Powers asked.

Scott shrugged. "It would go to a Garrett, no question. But which one would depend on grandfather's mood. He might leave it to the kids; they need it the most. Or to Gerald and Caroline. He likes them the best. He might just divide it among all the Garretts." Scott smiled faintly and apologetically. "It might be anyone."

Wes groaned at the too-familiar phrase. "We're still not getting anywhere."

"Just wait a minute," Murdoch said. "Something doesn't make sense here, or maybe it does. Listen, someone wanted Scott to die before Harlan did. They decided they couldn't wait for Scott to die naturally or in an accident. After all, Harlan's in his 70s. However healthy he is, he is more likely to die than a young man."

"So they decide they have to help matters along," Powers contributed. "They have to kill Scott before Harlan dies."

"Exactly!" Murdoch said in excitement.

The others looked at him blankly.

"Well, how do they do it?" Murdoch asked impatiently. "How do they kill Scott when they're in Boston and he'd in California?"

Understanding dawned.

"You mean they lured Scott back East?" Wes asked. "But that would mean …"

"… That grandfather's illness isn't real." Scott's words were almost a prayer.

"Oh, it's real enough," Murdoch corrected. "But it's not natural."

"That must be why Mr. Garrett got better after Scott was shot," Powers said in growing excitement. "Because they didn't want him to die before Scott did."

"Wait!" MacGregor broke in to the conversation. "Are you saying that Mr. Garrett was poisoned to make him sick to cause Scott to come to Boston?"

The investigators exchanged looks and found themselves in agreement.

"It's only a hypothesis," Powers said. "But it fits the facts better than anything else we've considered."

"Not one fact," MacGregor protested. "Benjamin Fraser may be an obnoxious, pompous snob, but he's a talented physician. There is no way he could treat a man for more than two weeks, mistaking poisoning for a heart attack!"

"Unless he was the poisoner," Johnny said quietly.

"He fits the telegraph messenger's description," Powers said judiciously.

"He left grandfather just about the time the telegram is supposed to have come. He could have seen the messenger from grandfather's room," Scott said wearily, his first excitement draining away.

"That would explain why the man who intercepted the message didn't warn his partner about the telegram," Johnny added. "Fraser didn't stay to dinner. He was on his way out of the house."

Wes snorted. "He wouldn't even have to administer the poison, just prescribe it. Mr. Garrett would take the poison himself, thinking it was medicine."

MacGregor shook his head angrily. "You've gone beyond speculation into accusation, now," he warned. "You can't accuse a man of attempted murder without proof!"

"Then help us get the proof, doctor," the chief constable said mildly. "Come and take a look at the medicines Fraser prescribed for Harlan."

MacGregor hesitated, but his worst failing as a doctor was getting emotionally involved with his patients. He had a strong desire to horsewhip the person who had wounded Scott and framed Johnny. Failing that, he wanted to help bring the man to justice. MacGregor abandoned his reservations and agreed to join the hunt.

"Scott …" Johnny began, then cut himself off. His brother was asleep.

The hunting party watched in silent anxiety as the doctor checked his patient. They were relieved when MacGregor reported his condition satisfactory.

"He should sleep for awhile now," the doctor predicted, as he ushered the group out.

The doctor had been known to be wrong.

More than three-quarters under, unaware he had been left alone, Scott was still working on the puzzle.

"Not right," he muttered in uneasy slumber. "Not a Garrett. No profit in it."

A few moments later, he said clearly, "But there's one person he'd do it for."

But there was no one in the room to hear the name he spoke.

**To Be Continued**

_**A/N: So, at last, the plot laid out in plain view. It unravels so neatly once you pull on the right strand of yarn. So you ought to know whodunit by now, right? Just two chapters to go. I'll try not to leave you hanging so long next time.**_


	15. Runs in the Family

**Lancer 15: Runs in the Family**

Mrs. Hodges answered the door, apologizing because he husband was upstairs giving Mr. Garrett his medicine. She must have thought the men had gone mad. Like a hunting pack in full cry, they roared up the stairs in bounds and leaps.

Johnny had the edge in reflexes and youth. He was first into Harlan's room, hitting Hodges at full tilt and forcing the surprised butler back against the wall, away from the patient. The bottle of pills was open in Hodges' hand. It was a tribute to his training, that he didn't spill a one.

Harlan's astounded bellow was cut off by the other four men slamming into the rebounding door and bursting into the room. Realizing the constables wouldn't be part of any frivolity, Harlan shut his mouth.

The doctor demanded, "Did you take any of those pills?"

"Not yet," Harlan replied curtly. "Why?"

"There's something we have to check," Powers said evasively. It was, after all, only a theory. And there were laws against slander.

MacGregor extended his hand for the pills. With a glance at his employer, the butler meekly handed them over.

The doctor studied a pill, then sniffed it. A puzzled look crossed his face. Cautiously he touched the tip of his tongue to the pill, and the puzzlement was replaced by perplexity.

He set the pill on the dressing table and smashed it angrily with the bottom of the bottle. He tasted the powder and confirmed his perplexity.

"Placebo!" he said in a strangled voice.

"Huh?" Johnny asked politely.

"Sugar, just sugar pills!:

"Not poison?" Wes asked in some disappointment. It may have been just a theory, but it had been an attractive one.

"Poison!" Hodges gasped.

At the door, Mrs. Hodges squeaked in alarm. (She had dared to follow the madmen up the stairs.)

"No, not poison, constable," MacGregor said. "But why would a doctor give a sick man sugar pills?"

"Wait a minute, weren't there two kinds of pills?" Wes demanded. He had heard Fraser instructions to Hodges.

"Yes sir, we alternate …." Hodges reached for a second bottle, but Dr. MacGregor pounced first.

He looked at the label and was surprised again.

"Digitalis," he read. He examined the pills carefully. "Digitalis," he agreed.

"Damn!" Powers cursed.

"Why?" asked the doctor in mild surprise.

"Digitalis is a medicine for the heart, isn't it?" Powers said. "It's just what it's supposed to be."

"Oh, no. No, it's not," the doctor said. "But I supposed that's what he counted on." MacGregor turned to Harlan. "Symptoms: rapid, irregular heartbeat, nausea, headache, trembling."

Harlan was trembling — with fury! He nodded at MacGregor's list, too angry to speak. MacGregor returned the nod.

"All the symptoms of digitalis poisoning," he said to the group. "Digitalis is used to treat weak, sluggish hearts, because it strengthens and speeds up the heartbeat. Give enough of it to a healthy person, and the heart will go into spasms — and stop." He looked at Harlan with his doctor's eye. "I'd say he's been giving you just enough to keep you bedridden."

"No wonder you've been feeling stronger since Scott was shot," Johnny said, as he wandered toward the window.

"Couldn't have you dying first. It would have spoiled everything," Murdoch agreed. "But if Scott had been killed outright, who would have been surprised that his already ill grandfather had a heart attack in his grief and shock."

Johnny laughed suddenly, without mirth. The others stared at him.

"When we first got here, Fraser told Scott Harlan only had a few months to live," Johnny explained. "Scott said he'd never say that unless he was sure."

"Like predicting the Christmas goose won't see the new year," Wes said sardonically.

"You mean I've been poisoning myself!" Harlan exploded in outrage, then, he paused. "And what's this got to do with Scott getting shot?" he asked with quick intelligence.

As the others explained, Johnny's eye was caught by something outside the window. In the gathering dusk, a cab stopped across the street. A man carrying a small, leather bag got out and walked straight toward Harlan's house. The cab horses stomped and shook their harness into a more comfortable position. The driver folded his arms and settled to wait.

The passenger crossed the street. As he stepped under a gas lamp, he looked up at Harlan's window. Johnny stepped back, out of sight.

"I'd like to give that Hippocratic hypocrite a piece of my mind," Harlan snarled, sounding more like his old self every second.

"Looks like you're going to get the chance," Johnny said with pleasure. "A cab just pulled up outside and guess who got out?"

"The doctor said he'd come by tonight, sir," Hodges told Powers.

"He says a lot of things," Powers replied. "Let's see if he'll talk as freely to us."

Hodges received his instructions and dashed downstairs in time to chase Estelle away from the door. The doorbell rang again as Hodges straightened his clothes, brushed back his hair, and opened the door, the perfect, straight-faced, deadpan butler.

"Good evening, doctor," he said, taking the poisoner's hat. "Mr. Garrett has been asking for you," he added with absolute truth.

* * *

><p>Fraser bustled self-importantly into Harlan's bedroom. He stopped dead, two paces inside, when he saw the reception committee assembled to greet him.<p>

Harlan sat upright in the bed, glaring at the young doctor. Toying with the telltale bottle of pills, MacGregor eyed his colleague dispassionately, as if he was a loathsome, but common, disease. Powers' cold grin cried "Eureka!" and Murdoch's hand rested ominously on his holstered gun.

Fraser took an involuntary step backward, and heard the door shut behind him. He shied around and found himself facing the two young men.

Wes looked grim and ready for battle, but Johnny's grin looked almost cheerful, until Fraser saw his icy eyes.

The doctor shuddered, dropped his bag and held out empty hands.

"Too bad," Johnny said with real regret.

Fraser's sense of self-preservation recovered from its shock.

"Wha…" He swallowed a stutter. "What's going on? What's wrong?"

"Your questions are too slow and too late," Powers said, moving forward to take the doctor's elbow to usher him downstairs. "You're under arrest for attempted murder and conspiracy to commit murder."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Fraser tried to bluster. He was sweating.

"Now, doctor," MacGregor admonished. "There are any number of people who can testify to Mr. Garrett's symptoms and any number of doctors who can testify that you don't give digitalis to a man in that condition." MacGregor stepped nose to nose with Fraser. "Even if you somehow evade the weight of the law," he growled. "I will personally see that you lose your license and are never allowed to practice medicine again!"

Fraser went white. Powers saw it with satisfaction. He decided to let the doctor stew.

"Come on, doctor," he said. "We'll talk about this at headquarters."

* * *

><p>The constables flanked Fraser in the constables' carriage. Murdoch and MacGregor studied him from across the coach. Johnny chose to avoid the press, climbing up beside the driver.<p>

As he settled himself, he saw Fraser's cab driver flick his horse into motion. Johnny idly watched the cab head down the deserted street and turn toward Worcester Square.

There was something odd about that, said a small voice at the back of Johnny's mind.

The thought jarred loose as the constabulary driver brought his team to life. Johnny made a grab for balance as they headed in the opposite direction, back toward town and the jail.

As they jogged toward town, Johnny wondered why he didn't feel happier. They had Fraser, and he wasn't tough enough to stand up to intense questioning. Pretty soon he'd give the constables his confederate and then it would be over.

But satisfaction eluded Johnny. Part of the problem, he realized, was that the confederate was still at large, because the confederate was obviously the more dangerous of the two. Fraser had not been present to shoot Scott, and he couldn't have given Harlan the first dose of digitalis, either. That had to be someone in the family. All Fraser had done was keep the old man sick while posing as a healer. Someone else had made the active attempts to commit murder.

There it was again. Johnny shook his head to stop the faint bell from ringing.

He knew, he knew, that he ought to know who the ambusher was. Somewhere in all the stories Scott had told him he had the answer. But he'd met too many people, learned too many facts, too fast. The trauma of the past week had left it all jumbled in his mind.

He cudgeled his mind for the information, but nothing popped out.

Not for the first time, Johnny Lancer regretted a childhood spent learning to act without thinking.

'If the killer gets away because I'm too stupid to remember what I've been told; then I'm going to learn how to think, if I have to go back to grade school to do it,' Johnny vowed to himself.

He sighed audibly.

The driver misjudged the direction of his thoughts.

"It's a beautiful night for a drive," he agreed.

Drawn out of his introspection, Johnny looked around and found himself in accord. Moonlight turned the peaceful streets to pebbled silver. The stars sparkled in a cloudless sky. The scent of flowers and greenery filled the brisk spring night.

Johnny pulled his jacket closer against the wind.

"Beautiful," he affirmed. "But you must have been cold all that time you waited for us."

Johnny stopped, jaw open, never hearing the driver's denial.

"Waiting," Johnny murmured. "Waiting. The cab was waiting. But it didn't … wait! Stop the coach!" he shouted to the startled driver. "Stop it!"

Johnny leaped off the still moving coach, forcing the driver to rein in abruptly, out of fear of running over his passenger. Johnny bounded to the steps, snatched open the door and reached in as the passengers recovered from the sudden stop.

Johnny caught Fraser by the front of his coat and threw himself backwards, dragging the larger man from the carriage. The weight of the doctor carried them both to the ground, but Johnny was on top when they rolled to a stop in the gutter.

"Who was in the cab?" he demanded, shaking Fraser by the throat. "Who!"

Powers tried to drag Johnny away, but the young man fought him off. Murdoch, who knew his son better, held the constables back.

"Johnny! What's wrong?" Murdoch shouted.

"The cab that brought him to Harlan's was waiting for him." With scarcely leashed fury, Johnny shoved Fraser's head against the ground to emphasize each point. "But when we left, it left! The driver hadn't been dismissed! He hadn't been paid! And he headed toward Worcester Square — toward the hospital!" Johnny pulled Fraser up by the lapels and snarled into his face. "They're going after Scott again, aren't they? Who is it, Fraser? Who's in that cab?"

"No. No, she wouldn't," Fraser stuttered.

Johnny dropped him.

"She?" Wes said in surprise.

"Caroline!" Johnny said with certainty.

Fear was cold in the pit of his stomach as he put together the facts he'd been trying to remember.

"She was there, always there, any time anything happened. She sent for Fraser to be Harlan's doctor. She could get Fraser to do anything she wanted, because he loves her. He's always loved her, Scott said. Now she's on her way to kill Scott."

"She wouldn't," Fraser protested. "Not now. It would be insane!"

Johnny thought about the way Caroline fawned over Scott, then shot him; the way she acted friendly toward Johnny, then framed him and shrieked hysterically that he was a murderer.

Damn it, she is crazy," he whispered. "She's as crazy as her grandfather. Come on, what are we waiting for?"

Johnny sprang to the driver's seat and snatched the reins. He slapped the team into motion, leaving the others to throw Fraser inside and scramble aboard as he turned the heavy coach. The horses caught the urgency of Johnny's demand and thundered toward the hospital.

* * *

><p>Caroline felt a small regret at Fraser's capture. She knew her own capture would follow, but that didn't matter, as long as she completed her mission.<p>

She had no doubt that Fraser would tell on her. He was so easily manipulated.

She had laughed behind his back to think that he seriously believed she would kill her dear, sweet Gerald in order to marry him. Garretts don't kill Garretts, as her grandfather always said.

Too bad Scott gave up being a Garrett. It would have saved a lot of trouble if he'd stayed dead in the war. But there was still time to remedy that. Grandfather would be so proud of her.

The cab stopped at Boston City Hospital. Caroline paid the driver and thanked him politely, before proceeding inside. She made a fetching picture in her floor-length, forest green skirt and matching fur trimmed jacket. She wore a dainty hat and tucked her hands into a fur muff.

* * *

><p>Life for Scott had become a cycle of discomfort. Exhaustion had dragged him under. Pain prodded him awake again after less than two hours of sleep. His debated calling for assistance, but the pain was bearable as long as he didn't move. He lay as still as possible, thinking about Caroline.<p>

He'd awakened with a clear memory of his semiconscious realization, that Caroline was the only Garrett that Fraser would risk his life to help. The discovery added mental pain to the physical.

Scott had always cared for Caroline. It hurt to think that she'd been willing to marry him and kill him, just for Harlan's money. Scott couldn't say it surprised him, however. Inbred cattle were weak, so were inbred people. Insanity ran in that branch of the family, anyway.

Caroline was what she was, because she was a Garrett three times over — which was two times too many.

Pained but not anxious, Scott waited for the Lancers or the constables to return. Though he knew he was a target, he wasn't worried, because he was certain he'd told the investigators about his discovery. Even if that was wrong — those last moments were awfully fuzzy — there was still a guard at his door.

But the guard was really only meant as a deterrent. He hadn't been introduced to the entire Garrett family. He didn't know them by sight.

When a lady walking past accidentally dropped her hat, it was only natural for him to pick it up …

* * *

><p>Scott heard the thump as the guard's limp form banged the door on his way down.<p>

Drowsily, the patient opened his eyes and watched the door swing open. Caroline stood there, regarding him impassively.

The sudden rush of adrenalin banished Scott's pain and cleared his head. Nothing showed on his expression, however.

"Caroline," he said.

"Good-bye, Scott," she replied.

Casually, she raised a dueling pistol and fired. If she expected Scott to be frozen in shock, she was wrong. Trained reflexes, honed by his years in the wild West, threw him off the bed as the bullet blew the pillow into feathered oblivion.

But the escape was costly.

Scott hit the floor with a force that drove breath and strength from a body flooded by shocking pain. His mind screamed, "Get up! Get out!" But his body wouldn't respond.

A warm wetness began to soak through his bandages, but he ignored it. With agonized effort he levered himself up and rolled onto his back, half under the bed.

Totally spent, he could only lie there, wheezing painfully, and watch as Caroline carefully reloaded her single-shot pistol. He didn't even have the breath to ask her why.

"I think my problem the first time was that used an unfamiliar pistol," Caroline said in a conversational tone. "So this time I chose daddy's target pistol. I won't miss with this."

The hospital had been awakened by the shot. Questioning voices called out and running feet pounded toward the room. Caroline didn't seem to hear a thing.

She straightened up and realized she couldn't get a clear shot at Scott with him half hidden under the bed.

With great deliberation, she walked around the bed, knelt at Scott's side, put his head gently in her lap and pressed the pistol to his temple.

Her thumb pulled the hammer back … and Johnny slid into the room, gun in hand. Murdoch and Wes filled the doorway behind him, guns ready.

They froze when they saw the tableau in front of them.

Caroline's thumb trembled on a hammer that wasn't cocked.

"Gentlemen," Caroline said clearly. "Have you ever heard of a dead man's switch?"

A dead man's switch — in locomotives, the engineer had to hold the switch down to keep the throttle open. If the switch was released, as would happen if the engineer dropped dead, the engine would immediately stop.

At the moment, the trigger of the dueling pistol was useless. It would not engage until the hammer was cocked. But the hammer itself would fire the pistol adequately. And the hammer was held back only by the pressure of Caroline's thumb.

If Caroline released the hammer, as would happen if she was shot dead, Scott's life would immediately stop.

"We understand," Murdoch told Caroline.

Johnny looked at the scene — at the blood on Scott's chest and the pain on his face — and the gunfighter in him took command. He let the cold wash through him, freezing all emotions solid. Emotions would only get in the way now.

Caroline instructed the men to put their weapons on the floor. As Powers and MacGregor lurked unseen in the hallway, angrily gesturing bystanders away, Wes and Murdoch complied with Caroline's order.

Hand as steady as a glacier, Johnny followed suit. He positioned the weapon carefully, then stepped back, positioning himself with equal care.

Murdoch saw the decision in his actions and knew there was no arguing with Johnny Madrid. Pulling Wes with him, Murdoch stepped away to give Johnny room for whatever he had in mind.

Scott also could see the frost in Johnny's eyes.

"Don't … kill …" he gasped.

Caroline laughed and caressed his temple with the gun barrel.

"Beg some more," she cooed. "I love to hear men beg."

Johnny knew the plea was meant for him. It didn't affect his plans, though. He calculated he only had one possible shot if he wanted to save his brother's life, and he could make that shot only if he got an opening. The chances were so slim they would have frightened him, if he had let his emotions out of their winter hibernation.

"Why don't you put your gun down, Mrs. Garrett," Wes coaxed. "You can't get away with it, now."

"Beg some more," Caroline said, as delighted as a child on Christmas morning.

"Give it up, Wes." Johnny grabbed the spotlight. "She's made up her mind to kill Scott no matter what. Don't you see? She's crazy. She had to be crazy to come here in the first place!"

"I am not crazy!" she said petulantly. "I have to kill him."

"Why?" Murdoch asked. "You won't gain anything by it."

"It's not for me. It never was. It was my duty as a Garrett, to keep the Garrett fortune from falling into the hands of outsiders."

"But Scott's a Garrett," Wes protested.

"Not any more," she said with finality. "He renounced us." She increased the pressure on the hammer. "And we renounce him!"

**To be continued in the final chapter**


	16. Home Sweet Home

_A/N: This is it. The big finale._

**Chapter 16: Home Sweet Home**

"Don't you see, Murdoch," Johnny said loudly, drawing Caroline's attention away from Scott. "You ought to recognize it best of all. It's that same Garrett pride, that same damned Garrett stubbornness that took Scott away from you for twenty years! Now she wants to take him away for good! Oh, she's a Garrett all right — prideful, stubborn and crazy as bedbugs, the whole lot of them!"

"That's a lie!" Caroline shrieked, bunching her fists in anger and squeezing the pistol she held. The hammer locked back with a click that seemed to shake the room.

Caroline started, her dead man's advantage gone, and fumbled for the trigger. Johnny dove for his gun, half-rolled to clear Scott's body, and blew the pistol out of Caroline's hand just as she fired.

The window shattered, raining glass on the street where the constables' sturdy driver stood guard over an unresisting Fraser.

A horrible gobbling sound broke the silence that followed. Caroline cradled the bloody wreck of her hand and blubbered to herself, her mind as broken as her fingers.

MacGregor turned from assuring himself that Scott's reopened wound had stopped bleeding by itself, and bundled Caroline away to the operating room.

Wes and Murdoch gently lifted Scott to his ravaged bed, but Scott didn't have any attention for them.

"Johnny," he croaked, gesturing to catch Murdoch's attention.

The youngest Lancer lay where he had dropped, face buried on his outstretched arms, hands still clenched around his gun.

Fear gripped Murdoch for a moment, but he knew Caroline's bullet had gone out the window. He took Johnny's gun away and guided his son to a chair.

Johnny's frozen emotions had thawed with a vengeance. Suppressed fear sought an outlet. It had been very, very close. Only Johnny understood just how desperate a shot it had been.

The youngest Lancer trembled all over, but gave Murdoch a triumphant smile.

"I guess I'm not sorry I didn't go to school after all," he told his baffled father.

But Scott understood.

"Amen, brother. A-men," he said.

* * *

><p><strong>Lancer Ranch, California, April 1872 (One year later)<strong>

The leaves on the big oaks were beginning to bud in the heat that betokened a short spring and a long, dry summer in the San Joaquin Valley.

Montana chased a stray back to the growing herd and paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Judging by what the long-time Lancer hands had told him, they had rounded up most of the strays in this sector. Another couple of days and they'd be moving the cattle to the summer pasture near the river.

Montana turned his horse back to the hills, when a flash of red caught his eye. A rider had paused a long-legged chestnut on the crest of the hill where the road topped it.

The cowhand stared, standing in his stirrups for a better view.

"What the devil is that?" he asked his companion, Frank, a veteran Lancer hand.

The black man studied the strange rider's scarlet jacket, white breeches and black cap. The rider studied the view, his gaze wandering over the Lancer ranch, which, from that spot, stretched as far as the eye could see.

"I never saw anything like it," Frank admitted judiciously. "Nice horse, though.

The rider started down the hill, ignoring the road. He picked his way at first, gradually urging the horse to greater speed, heading cross-country.

The two vaqueros noted the stranger's method of riding was as odd as his outfit. He stood in the stirrups, instead of sitting properly on the horse. And, though he was heading toward the ranch house, you couldn't say he was going directly there. There was nothing direct about his progress. He rode a zigzag course, purposely aiming the horse at obstacles over which the animal flew with hardly a break in stride.

A creek, a bush, a clump of rocks, a wire fence, and the rider was as close to the vaqueros as he was going to get. He doffed his hat and waved it.

"He's heading toward the house," Montana observed. "Should we stop him and see what he wants?"

"Nope," Frank replied. "He's got more right there than we do."

Montana turned in surprise and was more surprised to see the usually dour black man returning the rider's wave with a broad grin on his face.

"Who is it?" the new hand asked.

"You've been here what, three months?" Frank asked by way of reply. At Montana's nod, he continued. "Then you wouldn't know, but that's Mr. Lancer's other son, the one who's been back East."

"That's Scott Lancer?" Montana exclaimed incredulously, watching the dandified rider. "That's one of our bosses? That's a rancher?"

"Yep."

The Negro spurred his horse after Scott. Whooping and firing gunshots in the air, he attracted the attention of Johnny who was searching for strays farther along. The youngest Lancer wiped the sweat from his eyes and peered in the direction of the noise, which grew as the older hands paid tribute to Scott's return.

Johnny stood open-mouthed as his brother swept by with a jaunty salute and without stopping. With a yell of delight, the former gunfighter spurred Barranca after the cocky rider in red.

The sturdy cowpony made up ground for a bit, but couldn't keep up with the thoroughbred's deceptively easy stride over the long run. Johnny eased the palomino back from his breakneck pace, but continued on as rapidly as he could.

* * *

><p>Jelly Hoskins wandered into the living room and found Murdoch at his desk, submerged in the ranch books.<p>

"Checkin' up on Johnny, boss?" the old wrangler asked.

"What?" Murdoch said, coming up for air slowly.

With an exaggerated sigh of patience, Jelly repeated his question and added, "I saw him sittin' up 'til all hours last night, chewin' on his lip and pressin' so hard with that pen you'd a thought he was drivin' railroad spikes instead'a dottin' I's."

Murdoch smiled as he glanced at the last figures in the ledger.

"Johnny asked me to check over his work. I'm afraid he's not as confident with numbers as he is with cattle. But I don't think he should worry so much," he added with a smile, as he closed the book. "As far as I can tell, his figures are perfect."

The Lancer patriarch rubbed his tired eyes.

"It'll get better when Scott gets back, boss," Jelly said stoutly. "You won't have to shoulder so much of the book work then."

"I'm not sure he's coming back, Jelly," Murdoch said quietly. "It's been three weeks since we heard from him."

Jelly yanked off his old railroad cap and slapped it against his knee in disgust.

"There's nothin' more pitiful that a man who don't know his own son better'n that!" he began. It was the prelude to a longer speech, but a fusillade of far-off shots interrupted him.

"What the devil is that?" Murdoch growled, grabbing his gun belt.

The two men rushed out to the veranda where they saw a distant but familiar palomino pursuing a bounding chestnut. They tensed, then relaxed when it became obvious that Johnny wasn't shooting at the intruder, but into the air in high spirits. The sound of his whooping was carried on the wind.

"What in tarnation …?" Jelly began, but the look on Murdoch's face stopped him.

"It's Scott," Murdoch said. He ran back to the door. "Teresa! It's Scott!" he shouted. He ran back to the railing, where he looked at the rider as if trying to memorize every line.

Finally, he jumped down the steps into the yard to greet his eldest son.

* * *

><p>Scott heard his brother's shouts behind him, saw the rest of his family gathered in front of the house, and laughed.<p>

The sight of Lancer, the smell of the spring foliage, the feel of a flying horse had raised a joyous exhilaration in him. He was free again at last.

In the last few months, he'd been pampered and coddled and fussed over until he was plain sick of it. He'd spend his days content if he never again heard anyone ask, "How are you feeling today?" in that particular worried tone of voice.

Scott wasn't about to let his California family get started. He was bound and determined to distract their minds — by playing the fool if necessary — and to demonstrate that he was fully fit again. He wanted, most fervently, for things to get back to normal.

So he left Johnny in the dust and urged his hunter toward the highest gate of the corral in front of the ranch house.

"He'll never make it," Jelly predicted gloomily. "No cow pony can jump that gate."

"I'll take that bet, Jelly," Murdoch replied in high good humor, without taking his eyes off his son. "In case you hadn't noticed, that's no cow pony."

The chestnut soared a good foot over the high gate, put in two short strides and leaped over the lower corral fence, before easing to a halt in the yard.

Scott sprang from the English saddle and thumped the thoroughbred filly on the neck before turning to Murdoch, Jelly and Teresa. The girl ran forward, then turned suddenly shy. Scott looked so strange.

Scott tucked his cap under his arm and grinned at them.

"Isn't anyone going to say hello?" he asked finally.

So, of course, everyone started to talk at once. Jelly and Teresa fell silent, to let the boss get the first word in.

"Welcome home, son," he said, enfolding Scott's hand in a warm embrace that said more than Murdoch could ever say aloud. Scott wouldn't settle for that, though. He flung an arm around the big man's neck and slapped his back.

Then Scott turned to Teresa, who hovered close, as if she wanted to hug Scott but was afraid he'd break. Scott would allow none of that. He picked her up and swept her around in a giddy circle. She hugged him then, without reservations.

Finally Scott turned to Jelly, who'd taken the reins of Scott's horse. The wrangler studied the horse with exaggerated care, but had to clear his throat twice before he could ask, "What's this critter, a horse or a bird?"

"Both, Jelly," Scott laughed, slapping the grizzled hand on the shoulder. "She's a thoroughbred hunter. Her name is Peregrine."

"Pair a what?"

"Peregrine, Jelly. It's a falcon, a kind of hawk," Scott said. "Take good care of her. She's a gift from grandfather."

Jelly humphed. "Come on you lop-eared, good-for-nothin', flea-bitten, bag'a'bones," he told the animal whose pedigree went back further than his own.

The horse blew contentedly down the man's neck, then turned her head to eye the palomino that thundered through the main gate.

Johnny flew from his horse, carrying Barranca's momentum with him as he threw himself at his brother. He filled the air with excited questions, which ended with a yelp as Scott dodged Johnny's charge, caught his arm and twisted it behind his brother's back.

The pressure of the armlock forced Johnny up on his toes where he surrendered, laughing.

"Oh, not so fast, brother," Scott said through teeth that were gritted in a grin. "First you've got to apologize for attacking me like a wild Indian."

Johnny apologized quickly.

"And then you're going to give me a chance to wash off the trail dust and relax over one of Teresa's dinners, before you start barraging me with questions. Do I have your word?"

Johnny felt the strength in Scott's grip and remembered the sureness of his whirlwind attack. He realized Scott had answered, in his brotherly fashion, the only question Johnny had really worried about.

The younger brother felt his shoulder creak as Scott tightened his grip.

"I promise. I promise," Johnny said hastily.

Scott released him.

Johnny regarded his brother thoughtfully, then sighed with pleasure.

"Brother, you're a sight for sore eyes — among other things," he said, rubbing his shoulder.

Scott laughed and tousled Johnny's hair. They walked into the ranch house, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders.

* * *

><p>Scrubbed clean and dressed more appropriately, pleasantly replete Teresa's finest, short-notice meal, and comfortably tired from his long trip, Scott leaned back in his chair and fingered his brandy snifter.<p>

Scattered around the living room, the others eyed him expectantly.

"I think we've been more than patient, son," Murdoch hinted.

"Yeah, come on, brother, talk," Johnny urged with less subtlety.

Scott laughed. "Where should I start? You already know the beginning."

"Start with the trial," Murdoch ordered. "We haven't heard from you since it started."

"No," Scott admitted. "I was busy then and when it was over, I left town as soon as I decently could."

Murdoch, Johnny and Teresa nodded understanding. Jelly snorted.

"It was pretty bad, but mercifully short," Scott said slowly. "You know Caroline's hand became infected and they had to amputate. It was touch and go for a while, but she finally recovered — physically. It might have been better if she'd died, because her mind just seemed to deteriorate. The constables never did find any evidence to prove she killed Justin, you know. It was a rainy day, few people were out and those that were had their heads down. No one saw her trip Justin in front of the beer wagon. But the lack of evidence didn't matter. Caroline confessed the whole thing as happily as if she was talking about picking daisies on a summer afternoon. She talked about poisoning grandfather, drugging Gerald, shooting me and framing Johnny with the same casual pleasure."

Scott took a healthy swallow of brandy to dull the memory.

"It was …" He paused, then continued softly. "There are no words to describe how awful it was, seeing her tell the judge about her murderous plans like a schoolgirl discussing a class assignment."

He raised his glass again.

"Simile!" Johnny announced, to break the somber mood.

Scott almost choked on the brandy. When he finished coughing and laughing, he continued with his story, but he didn't look quite so depressed.

"Caroline was found not guilty by reason of insanity and was sent to an asylum. Fraser lost his license, of course, and was convicted of attempted murder and conspiracy to commit murder. They couldn't prove he knew anything about Justin, but he'll spend the next few years behind bars.

The trial was hardest on Gerald. He loved Caroline so much. But his father was there and Mary stood by him as if he was her brother instead of her former brother-in-law. Frederick was actually grateful enough to invite Mary and her husband to dinner. It made Jim and Hal so happy, I don't think Frederick will be able to revert to his old ways. Besides, he found, somewhat to his surprise, that he likes Mary's new husband."

In an aside to Johnny, Scott added that Frederick and Mort sent their apologies for seeming to try to railroad Johnny. They had been so frightened that the killer was a member of their family, that they had convinced themselves Johnny must be guilty. Scott didn't have to add that the Desmonds sent no apology. Their only regret was that Johnny hadn't had the decency to be guilty and spare them the public embarrassment of Caroline's trial.

"How's the rest of the family?" Johnny asked. "How are Annabell and the kids?"

"I persuaded grandfather that some of his money should stay in the Garrett family, so we set up trust funds for each of the six children. Laura is ready to start finishing school, and the boys will be able to attend college whenever they're ready. And Annabell," Scott added with a wide grin, "is considering matrimony."

Johnny exclaimed over the news.

"She's being courted by Mark Powers," Scott confirmed. "She says she's too old to get married, but the chief constable is a persistent man. I'm betting on next June myself."

"How's Harlan?" Murdoch asked politely.

"He was up and around before I was," Scott said. "The ordeal didn't seem to have changed him much. He tried to convince me to stay in Boston," Scott added with a sly glance at his father.

Murdoch tensed, then forced himself to relax, annoyed with his knee-jerk reaction.

Scott continued, "Grandfather reminded me that I would have died from that wound if I'd been in California. I reminded him I wouldn't have been shot if I'd been in California. We left it at that."

"Well, I, for one, an angry with you, Scott Lancer," Teresa teased. "You go off to Boston for a whole year and the only present you bring back is for yourself!"

Everyone laughed.

"Teresa, I've got two trunks full of presents and heirlooms at the station, waiting for us to send a wagon. I was in too much of a hurry to bring them with me today. Somewhere in there is a party dress made by the top dressmaker in Boston, and I hope to heaven it fits!"

"I'll make it fit," the girl promised, eyes shining.

"What else did you bring?" Jelly asked, curiosity getting the best of him.

"I don't want to give away all the surprises, but there's something for everyone, Jelly. There's even a music box." Scott looked directly at his father when he spoke.

When Murdoch found his voice, he said, "I never thought Harlan would let that box out of his sight."

"Neither did I," Scott confessed. "But it's not half so surprising as grandfather changing his will."

"Cut you out, huh?" Jelly grinned.

"No, that part stayed the same," Scott grinned back. "But he finally added a section about what to do in case I die before he does."

"Which isn't too unlikely the way you ride," Jelly added tartly.

"What'd he do, leave it to the kids?" Johnny asked, as he raised his glass to his lips.

"No." Scott waited until Johnny took a swallow. "He left it to you."

The reaction was satisfactory. Johnny sprayed brandy halfway across the room.

"What?"

"If I predecease him, the bulk of grandfather's estate will go to my heirs, which at the moment are you and Murdoch," Scott explained precisely.

He turned to his father. "And he said to tell you, no arguing," Scott added firmly. "'Katherine would have wanted it that way,' he said."

Murdoch was speechless. It seemed the great Lancer-Garrett feud was officially over.

"Of course, there's a price to pay for grandfather's generosity," Scott added wickedly.

Murdoch's face took on an "of course there's a catch" expression, but he was floored when Scott finished, "He expects us to put him up for Christmas."

Murdoch was doubly speechless. Not so, Johnny.

"Good," he exclaimed. "Tell him to bring the Hodges and Mrs. Hodges can teach Teresa to make those crinkle cookies."

During the laughter, Jelly raised himself to his feet.

"Well, I'd better be goin'," he said. "Some of us are just poor workin' folk. Got chores to do before they can bed down."

"While you're out there, Jelly, tell the boys that Saturday has been declared an official Lancer holiday," Murdoch said with energy. "We'll hold a barbecue in the afternoon and a dance that night. We'll invite the whole valley!"

"The fatted calf, Murdoch?" Scott said with a touch of shyness.

"'For this my son was dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found,'" Murdoch quoted softly.

"Welcome home, brother," Johnny said. He raised his glass in a toast that everyone joined. "Welcome home."

**The end**

_A/N: There you are. Twenty years in the making. Handwritten, typed on a typewriter, retyped on a computer, translated from an outdated word processing file and, finally, posted online for all to see. Bless you readers, particularly you few who reviewed. Adios._


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